Seeder's Games
by Yitz
Summary: A young girl from District 11 is reaped for the annual Hunger Games, where she will have to fight to the death among 23 other teenagers.
1. Chapter 1

Routine is my secret weapon. There's something comforting about it – when you do the same stuff over and over again, week after week, that's how you establish a sense of what's normal. And that can be very helpful in times when normalcy is in short supply. Yes, eventually, you learn to absorb things like hearing about (or, perhaps, seeing) someone you know being severely beaten for failing to return equipment on time. You become able to ignore news of a single parent having been executed. You put your head down, try not to think about it, and move on to the next task. That's how you survive.

I don't know how things are in other parts of Panem, but in District 11, it's easy to establish a routine. For us kids, that's school Monday through Friday, and, for most families, you're likely to work several of those days, too. Being well-to-do in District 11 essentially means having enough money that your children don't need to work in the fields, and I can count on one hand the number of households I'm familiar with who fit this definition. But that's all right. I'm better off than plenty, too. Between my parents and my own efforts, we make just enough to keep the three of us fed and our little house in one piece. I'm not sure we'd get by if I had a sibling.

I guess you could describe my parents as… pragmatic. They're quiet, always lost in thought, evaluating the circumstances and weighing the options. I suppose I inherited this to some extent, what with my routines and all, but if I were a parent, I think I'd be a bit more openly loving. But I am like them in my own way. I, too, understand the danger of letting emotion overtake you.

Today, my routine is different. Not only because it's Sunday – a day off from school and work alike – but it's also something far more significant: Reaping Day. I know this because, like just about everyone around here, I have been counting down for a while, trying to prepare myself for what will invariably be the worst 24 hours of the year.

Although I could technically sleep in if I felt like it, I awake at the usual time. My parents have risen, too, which is no surprise; I don't think I can recall a single instance when I was up before them. They sit at the low table in the small corner that we call our kitchen. I can tell from the aroma that they're drinking coffee, a rare treat in 11 – but then, we're supposed to approach Reaping Day as a holiday.

"Good morning," I greet my parents.

They both look back at me: my mother with her curly hair loose and wild, and my father, looking paler than usual. They each give me a tight, pained smile. They're already worried. And for good reason, too, for Reaping Day is when we find out which two children from District 11 will die. Of course, there's always that slim chance that one of our tributes will win – it has happened before – but optimism in 11 around Hunger Games season is about as common as a sunflower in the dead of winter.

I briefly consider spending some time sitting with my parents, but decide against it. For one thing, there wouldn't be much to discuss aside from the upcoming reaping, which I'd rather not think about any more than I have to. At first I think that a walk will be a good distraction, but once I head into the town square, I realize what a foolish idea this is. Even though it's early in the morning, laborers are hard at work setting things up. The outside of the Justice Building is being washed, a stage is being assembled, and most alarmingly, an enormous screen is being erected so that everyone can watch the Games whether or not they have a television at home. Fairly soon, a hovercraft will arrive with supplementary Peacekeepers and the District 11 escort, Golden Laronius, whom my best friend Carissa has affectionately nicknamed "The Harbinger of Doom."

If my weapon is maintaining normalcy, then Carissa's is her sense of humor. Her lot in life has been far worse than mine. No mother and two younger siblings that she and her father struggle to feed. She is one of my peers who goes to work every single day after school, but I have yet to hear her complain. If there's a bright side to anything – even the tiniest sliver – Carissa can find it and make you see it, too. I remember once when it was several days before tesserae rations were to be distributed. My family and I had been subsisting on mealy apples and corn mush, and as Carissa and I worked in an orchard, dreaming of those valuable grains and oil, our stomachs both growled loudly. Carissa's eyes widened and she grabbed my shoulder. "Take cover, Seeder!" she exclaimed. "I think there's a bear on the loose!" It was silly and ridiculous, but it was the laugh I needed to make it through that day.

Carissa's probably sleeping now, but I have no interest in passing the time by watching the town square being prepared for the reaping, so I turn around and walk in the opposite direction, not particularly caring where I end up, as long as it's away from that screen.

When you walk past the fields in 11, they look kind of beautiful. I suppose we're sort of lucky in that sense; there are few factories here, and the immense number of trees help purify the air, as we learned in school. At first glance, this could be easily mistaken for a nice place to live. But when you look closer and you see the poverty, the cruelty, and the hopelessness in so many people's eyes… well, then you can't see District 11 for anything but what it really is.

After a while, I find myself sitting amongst the pear trees. This would be a good place to hide for someone shorter, probably, but I'm not stupid enough to think I can avoid the reaping here. But since nobody is working today, there are no Peacekeepers around at the moment, or at least not in this particular area – I suppose none can be spared from the all-important task of readying the square for Hunger Games activities. I stand up for a moment, survey the area to confirm there are no Peacekeepers present, and then, on an impulse, I grab a pear and slide it into my pants pocket. Were anyone to see me do this, the punishment would be severe; public lashings, most likely. Thievery is held to be one of the most heinous crimes in 11, and it's certainly a deviation from any of my routines. But then it's not like anything today is really normal, anyhow.

I walk back home quickly, and although more people have begun filling the roads as the morning progresses, no one pays any attention to me. Maybe they don't want to look, because they'll be reminded that today, I'm not just their neighbor; I'm a potential tribute. When I get back to my own street, a few people do say hello. I figure if anyone asks about the lump on my leg, I'll tell them it's a pouch filled with dirt. To their credit, though, no one says a word about it. If they suspect I've stolen something from the fields, they don't care.

When I walk through the door, I find my parents cleaning the house. It's not exactly necessary, but it's something to do, I guess. The table has been set, too; the Reaping is one of the few days out of the year that we eat dinner together. Our way of celebrating that I wasn't chosen to die that year.

"You're back," my father says. "How is it looking out there?" He's talking about the town square, no doubt.

"Well, they're still putting everything up," I say. "I didn't hang around there long, though. I went out to the fields for a little bit." I feel myself smiling slightly. "Um," I mumble and then roll the pear out of my pocket.

My mother turns to look, her expression first startled and then worried. "Did you steal that, Seeder?" she asks. She sounds more surprised than angry.

I nod sheepishly.

She looks astonished. "You… you know how dangerous that is," she murmurs. Then, out of nowhere, my mother puts her arms around me and holds me close. "I can't let anything happen to you," she says quietly. I don't know how to answer, so I just hug her back. Time seems to stand still for a minute; then, my mother steps back, places her hands on my shoulders, and smiles. "You'd better not do that again."

"And if you do, don't get caught!" my father adds in, joking. Humor is his secret weapon, too.

After just a few hours, it's time to start getting ready for the Reaping. We're all supposed to dress up for it, and I've been wearing the same outfit for a few years, a plain black skirt and a pale pink blouse. Not my favorite outfit, but I can't complain; I know many people will turn up in their work clothes, having no other option.

We arrive at the town square a few minutes after noon, and I see that all the finishing touches have been made. The lights and speakers are up, and temporary barriers have been installed in the ground to section off the potential tributes from the bystanders. My parents and I exchange a quick hug before we separate, and I make my way to sign in and join the other girls of my age group. Sure enough, Carissa is there, wearing the brown linen pants we work in and a white tunic that's a little too large for her. Neither she nor I nor anyone else says a word as we take our places. There is nothing to do but wait for the horror to end.

Golden Laronius is already onstage, sitting next to Mayor Glenn. The other two chairs are occupied by District 11's previous victors who are still living: a senior woman, Ivy, and a much younger, one-handed man named Chaff. Of the four, Golden is the only one who doesn't look miserable. If you ask me, he looks _ridiculous_, what with his bright blue blush and the little gems stuck to his cheeks. He's actually fairly young, too, as far as escorts go – I'd place him in his early 20s. Golden has only been doing this a few years after our previous escort retired, but we've already grown to hate him just as much as the last one.

Mayor Glenn steps up to the podium and wishes us a good afternoon, officially beginning the reaping. It's the same introduction speech every year, telling us the history we've all heard so many times before. The same sorry excuses to justify the mass slaughter that will soon be occurring. Even this year's crop of 12-year-olds, eligible for the Games for the very first time, know the story.

Then it's time for the main event to begin. Golden practically leaps out of his seat and saunters his way up to the microphone. "Helloooo, everyone!" he chirps enthusiastically. "I'm so glad to be here with you today. Happy Hunger Games to you all!" As always, he's undeterred by our lack of response. "You know, I'm very proud to represent District 11. You were always my first choice." Then he smiles widely and claps his hands together. "So! Shall we find out which lucky two will become your tributes this year? We shall!"

No one makes a sound as Golden glances back and forth between the two reaping balls. "What do you think?" he wonders aloud. "Boys or girls first this year? I believe last time we gave the honor to the ladies, so gentlemen, you're up!"

Great. That means there's extra time for the fear to build. I think of my closest male friend, Clover. His family is pretty wealthy – he's only had to take out tesserae sporadically – and while that lowers his chances, it doesn't exempt him.

"All right then!" Golden approaches the boys' reaping ball and winks at the camera as he sticks his hand in and wiggles it around. Then out it comes, grasping a tiny paper envelope. "March Carmichael! Come on up here!"

We all give a weak little clap as the male tribute walks forward. A toast-colored boy I don't recognize steps out from the group of 14-year-olds and begins his ascent. His clothes are shabby, even by District 11 standards, which only becomes even more conspicuous as he takes his place onstage next to Golden in his shimmering suit.

"Wonderful!" Golden exclaims, looking absolutely thrilled at the short, gaunt boy who will serve as our male tribute this year. He knows how to put on a show, that's for sure. "I'm sure you'll delight us all, young man," he says pleasantly. "Now, let's see who your district partner will be." He crosses the stage to the second glass ball. My entire body tenses as I wait for the moment to pass. Once again, Golden's hand enters the ball. He takes out a name. He reads it. "Seeder Allingham!"

It's me.

That's my name.

I feel momentarily frozen – not sure how to act, not entirely certain that what I've just heard is real. I look to my left, and my gaze meets Carissa's. Her face is drained of color, her mouth in a tight line. Then I turn back to the stage, where Golden is waiting for me gleefully. So I put one foot in front of the other and walk to meet him, climbing each stair robotically until I've taken my place.

I look out into the crowd, my eyes scanning the faces to see my parents. There they are, huddled together, holding one another. I can't remember the last time I saw either of my parents crying, but they definitely are now. I'm glad I'm too far to hear it.

Golden places a hand on March's and my shoulders and addresses the crowd. "Everyone, please congratulate your tributes! March and Seeder. Come on, let's give them a rousing round of applause!"

The response we get is far from rousing, but it's applause, and indeed, there is some genuine happiness in there. Comfort in knowing that this horrible event is over. Gratefulness that they, or their child, weren't reaped this year. Relief that it was I who was chosen instead. March has already begun to cry softly, and he wipes at his nose, but I stay calm. My hands want to make fists, so I put them behind my back. I look straight ahead as I hear Golden shout out that ridiculous mantra: "May the odds be ever in your favor!"

I ignore him and look out upon the people of District 11. Here I am, everyone: your tribute. And soon I will be dead.


	2. Chapter 2

Many things cease to lose meaning when you know you have less than a month to live. For the old and the sick, routine is probably one of them, but that's not the case when you're a Hunger Games tribute. Until the moment you're actually tossed into the arena, there's a very specific program you have to follow, every step orchestrated.

The first step is shaking hands with your district partner. Then the national anthem plays, and the two of you just stand there. Immediately after, Peacekeepers escort you directly into the Justice Building. March and I are taken down one hallway and then separated as I'm installed in a room that's bigger than my entire house. The following hour is allotted for goodbyes, a Peacekeeper tells me, but mercifully, this period of time won't be filmed.

I sit down on the plush couch, feeling its soft fabric beneath my hands. No doubt this room must have been recently cleaned, but there's still something derelict about it. I don't think it sees use more often than once a year. I know Mayor Glenn and the council hold meetings in other parts of the Justice Building, but as far as I'm aware, this wing is reserved for tributes.

I think back to who sat here before me. It must have been last year's female tribute, a sickly-looking girl with a dark birthmark covering half her face. By the time of her first televised interview, no trace of it remained. I remember questioning whether or not this was a good idea – it made her stand out, for one thing, and they certainly appreciate… _unique_ forms of beauty in the Capitol. I'll be working with the same stylists this year; I can only hope they won't subject me to any procedures.

Predictably, my first visitors are my parents. They sit down in two chairs facing me and each of them takes one of my hands. For several minutes, we just look at each other's pained faces. Finally, I manage to choke something out. "I don't know how to say goodbye," I tell them. And I really don't.

My parents move onto the couch next to me and hug me tightly, trying to protect me from what's to come, trying to hold onto me. But they can't hold on forever. A Peacekeeper knocks on the door and announces it's time for them to leave.

"We love you, Seeder," my mother says as she stands up.

"More than anything in the world," adds my father.

"Never forget that."

And then they are gone. I know I will likely never see them again.

My visit from Carissa is no easier. Unlike my parents and me, she makes no effort, or lacks the ability, to reign back her emotions. There's no flash of her wit that I've come to rely on for comfort. "I don't know what I'm going to do without you," she sobs.

But I haven't come up with an answer by the time she's being escorted out. All I can think to say is, "Thank you for being such a wonderful friend." We embrace, and then I let her go. I'm going to have to get used to that – letting people go. It's odd; although I've known since age 12 that this could happen to me, I never seriously thought it would, and now that it has… how do I handle it? The only thing I'm thinking of right now is how I can stop myself from completely breaking down.

Clover walks in – not crying at the moment, but he has been. His face is flushed and puffy, and he keeps pulling at his clothes nervously. "I… I'm really sorry, Seeder," he says.

As my other best friend is led out, I lean back into the couch and shut my eyes. Involuntarily, my mind begins replaying every memory I have of Carissa and Clover. I met them both on the first day of school. I was scared – terrified, actually, of being separated from my parents. They didn't know how to handle it, but Carissa did. Even before one of the teacher's aides could step in, there was this other little girl, totally unafraid, taking my hand and showing me around the room. Clover became our friend not long after. All the students were doing finger paintings – during the early years, the kids get a lot of art and "enrichment" like that, but once you get older, all the lessons eventually trend solely toward agriculture. Well, Carissa and Clover were fighting over one of the paints, and I took it upon myself to diffuse the situation. I suppose I've continued to play this part in our friendship over the years, always trying to maintain the harmony. They will have to learn to do that on their own, now.

My last visitor comes as something of a surprise. It's my teacher, Miss Brady. She casually takes a seat in a chair across the couch and looks at me kindly. "Don't worry," she begins. "I'm not here to drop off the homework you'll be missing."

I can't help but chuckle. It feels weird to laugh now, but it's not unwelcome. A little break from the grief. "Thank goodness," I answer.

She gives me a sad smile in return. "I always wish there were a way I could teach bravery," she says. "You seem like maybe you've got some of that already, though."

The humor evaporates from the room. Me? Brave? I don't know what she's talking about. I'm scared out of my wits, and the need to cry has been constant since my name was called. I'm not even sure that the fully emotional weight of what's to come has hit me yet. And Miss Brady thinks I have bravery? "No…" I tell her. "I don't believe that."

"I've seen the way you can remain calm during conflict. Give yourself some credit for that, at least." Suddenly, her face becomes serious. "Seeder, you got good marks. Do you remember what we learned in class? About plants? Have you stored all that in your head?"

I hadn't even thought about that. "Some of it…"

"Remember," Miss Brady says. "The other tributes have a couple of days to find out about identifying edible plants. You've had years." She's smiling again. "Put my work to good use."

Then she stands up, gives my shoulder a squeeze, and she's gone.

I don't know if there's anyone else waiting to see me, but if so, they're out of luck, because after Miss Brady's exit, I'm informed that the hour has passed. Just like that, March and I are whisked out of the Justice Building, although this time we're taken out the back door. Immediately, we're seated in the back of a shiny black car, which will transport us to the train station.

I glance briefly at March, who is sitting with his knees up and his face pressed into them. I decide to leave him be. Instead, I look out the window. With every second passing, we draw further and further away from the fields where I grew; from the friends I planned to spend the rest of my life with; from my mother and father. It's the final thing I have to let go of: District 11 itself. When the car comes to a stop, I close my eyes and bid my home a final farewell.

We had a break from the cameras during our hour of goodbyes, but as March and I prepare to board the train, the cinematographers are out in vast numbers to capture every possible angle of our anguish. March appears totally bewildered and keeps looking back and forth among the various lenses pointed our way, but I am determined to ignore them. If I convinced Miss Brady that I'm brave, maybe that trick will work on audiences, too. I can't say for sure if it'll help me, though. Sponsors like tributes that they can pity just as well as heroic ones.

The train doors open, and March and I step inside. Instantaneously, they slam shut and the train begins accelerating. I lose my balance, both from the jolt of movement and also from feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sheer luxury of the train. It's nicer than any interior I've ever been in: everything gleams and looks beautiful and new. That includes Golden, who stands with his hands on his hips, ready to greet us. He must've gotten on in the previous hour.

"Hello, my pets," he says. "Have either of you ever been on a train before?" We both shake our heads. Is this really a serious question? The sole cases when trains leave from District 11 are when a food delivery is being made, which are trips made only by overseers, or now, when tributes are being brought to the Capitol. Maybe it was rhetorical, though, because Golden looks delighted by our response. "Well, not to worry! I'd be happy to show you around."

We spend the next thirty minutes receiving a detailed tour from Golden of most of the train (he omits the cars labeled "servants' quarters" and "utility"). I hadn't really known what to expect, and I'm amazed by what's being provided for us. March and I each have our own bedrooms and bathrooms; aside from them, there's also a lounge car with a television, where we'll watch the other reapings tonight. Finally, Golden brings us to the dining car, where Ivy and Chaff are waiting for us.

March and I take our seats at the table, and before anyone can say a word, we're being served. I watch as a plate of some kind of unfamiliar grain is set in front of me. All I can tell is that it's clearly not the tessera stuff.

Golden evidently notices my confusion. "This is _quinoa_," he explains.

"Keen-wah," March says, practicing this strange new word.

"Yes. Straight from District 9," Golden says.

District 9 is similar to 11 in that the focus is on farming, but they exclusively grow grains. I've heard that their culture is comparable to ours, which would make sense – but then, it's hard to know for certain. Communication between the districts is limited at best and actively repressed at worst, or so I've been told.

I watch as March carefully picks up the spoon and starts to dig it into the quinoa; he's interrupted by Golden. "Use your fork, dear," he says gently.

"Oh, what's it matter?" Chaff says, finally speaking up. "What difference does it really make what he uses, Golden?" he huffs.

Golden glares at Chaff. I can tell these two aren't exactly pals. "The difference is protocol," he says.

"Protocol." Chaff rolls his eyes. "Like that's going to do them any good," he grumbles and then grabs a glass of red liquid off the table.

I eat every bite of quinoa (using my fork). It's not incredibly flavorful, but I'm not going to turn my nose up at food, and I feel far more full than usual when I'm finished. So I'm astonished when my empty plate is taken away and subsequently replaced with one containing what would be considered a genuine feast in District 11: a large portion of chicken in a spicy, orangey sauce, a mound of cauliflower and broccoli in paper-thin slices, and a soft bread roll. "This is all for me?" I know it's a stupid question as I'm saying it, but I'm genuinely struggling to believe it. "After the quinoa?"

"Of course," Golden answers. "That was just the appetizer."

Ivy looks up. "Please try to understand," she says sadly. I don't know whether she's talking to Golden or to me, but the prospects of either him understanding our poverty or me understanding his wealth are equally ridiculous. No one says anything else for the rest of the meal, and that's just fine with me, because after the main course, we're served a thick vanilla pudding for dessert, and I'm happy to focus my attention on that.

After we eat, Golden herds us into the lounge car so we can get a look at our competition. First we're treated to the overenthusiastic face of Caesar Flickerman, welcoming us to another year's games and telling us how we're in for an exciting show. This evening's program is just a recap – the Capitol residents have already watched the whole reapings live.

We settle in as the scenes of District 1 flash on-screen. There's no male volunteer this year, and a 16-year-old boy is reaped. "That happens sometimes," Golden says mysteriously. There isn't any shortage of volunteers in 2, though, where a frighteningly muscular boy and girl jump to the challenge. In 3, a girl with floor-length hair is chosen – will they make her cut it, I wonder? Then, in 6, a tiny, sickly boy is reaped. Maybe the Capitol will patch him up a bit before the games, although I'm not sure they care about much beyond cosmetic concerns. Then comes a chubby boy in 8. Being overweight is something of a rarity outside the Capitol, so obviously, his family has money. Perhaps he's the son of the mayor or a factory owner or someone else important.

There's nothing too remarkable about the District 11 footage. Caesar doesn't have much to say about either March or me, just that we "look like a fine couple of tributes." Sure, I guess we do – we look skinny, dazed, and scared, like almost every other person who has ever been reaped. The final shots of the day are from District 12, where the tributes are so emaciated, I can't help but gasp.

"Try not to be sorry for them," Chaff says softly. "They're your opponents."

Golden nods. At least there's one thing they can agree on. And Chaff is right; as terrible, or beautiful, or pitiable as the other tributes may seem, I'll have to stop myself from thinking of them as just other kids. After all, it won't be long before we're trying to kill each other.


	3. Chapter 3

After the recap, Golden announces he has business to attend to and scurries off to another car. I haven't a clue what business that could be, since I haven't seen him do much yet besides officiate the reapings and order people around. In all honesty, though, I'm glad to be rid of him. Now it's just the tributes with our mentors.

March looks uncomfortable, so I take the lead. "All right," I say, trying to address Ivy and Chaff with confidence. "What's the most important thing for survival in the arena?"

"Good fighting skills," says Chaff.

"Making split-second decisions," says Ivy.

I glance at March. His face still shows anxiety, but he's listening intently. Good. I turn back to the mentors. "Well… I have to admit I'm not especially talented at either of those," I tell them sheepishly.

Chaff shrugs. "Of course not. That's what we're here to help you with. But I know you two have some talents already, right?"

"It doesn't necessarily have to be related to the Games," Ivy adds. "An ability that might seem trivial could end up being vitally important. It depends a lot on the arena – the terrain, the resources, you know."

"I'm good at remembering things," March offers.

"I'm good at staying calm," I say. I don't bother adding how reliant I am on my routines.

"Are you?" Chaff asks me. Then, without warning, I feel his fingers digging into my wrist! Immediately, I swat the hand away with force. I wonder for a second if I've done the wrong thing, but in response, Chaff nods slowly. "That's what I was looking for," he says.

Ivy smiles at us and tucks some of her gray hair behind her ear. "What kind of work do you two do?"

We answer in turns. I explain that I'm usually assigned to the apple or peach orchard, while March works digging up root vegetables. It shows on our hands: mine, marked with little cuts and splinters from the branches, and March's bruised and calloused from scooping up soil. We kids don't do any planting or maintenance – I guess they don't trust us – but we're skinny and small enough to fit between tree limbs or reach our tiny hands into bushes to grab only the ripest berries. After that, everything is sent for processing, where surveyors spend hours sorting through the produce and setting aside the very best stuff to be shipped to the Capitol. Whatever's left is handled by distribution managers, who use formulas (provided by the Capitol) to determine the allocation of the remaining fruits and vegetables among the districts. The last step is contacting the transportation authorities in District 6, and then the trains arrive to pick it up. I've watched them load the cargo before. Sometimes the crates are startlingly unoccupied; other times they look OK. Still, wherever they're going, it's almost certainly not going to be enough.

Chaff looks back and forth at March and me as we speak – sizing us up, probably. The years of work haven't made us muscular; being underfed eliminated that possibility for us, as well as most of 11's residents. There are exceptions, though: the burly men and women who cart wheelbarrows filled with pumpkins and watermelons, and, of course, Chaff himself. Being a victor means he can buy any food he wants now, but he was already pretty built when he was reaped. He was surprisingly aggressive in the arena, never running from a fight but always taking any enemy head-on… even the careers. That makes me wonder, though.

"Ivy," I say. "How did you win your games?"

She shifts uneasily in her seat. "Well," she starts. "It was a bit different back then. They didn't have all the technology they do now, you understand. So they had to innovate in… other ways."

I don't want to distress Ivy, but I can't fight my curiosity, and frankly, I need all the advice I can get. So I ask her to tell me more. March nods emphatically. I'm starting to get the impression that he's just going to follow my lead, which might be fine or even good for now, but what if he does the same thing in the arena? Will that help or hurt me? It's hard to know.

"In my games, the arena was a huge labyrinth," Ivy explains. "The cornucopia was right in the middle of it, where we all started; then, surrounding it were dozens of pathways bordered by tall concrete walls. There weren't a lot of supplies at the cornucopia. The idea was to push us outward and explore. As you can imagine, all kinds of… things… were hidden away in that maze." Ivy closes her eyes. "Some truly horrible things." Chaff takes her hand, and she smiles appreciatively at him, then continues. "I think that what made it really challenging was how everywhere looked the same. It was essentially impossible to have any concept of where you were. There was actually plenty to eat in there, but it was so easy to forget the way you'd come and walk into a trap. I think they enjoyed that, watching us lose our minds trying to find the food and water that was only a few yards away." Ivy sighs. "Eventually I realized I had to come up with some kind of system that would give me the ability to navigate. I drew on the walls. I used the same symbols we did in the fields, so the others wouldn't be able to understand them."

I have more I want to ask: did she have to kill anyone? Did she receive any sponsors? What happened to her district partner? But Ivy announces she wants to go to bed. Maybe I can ask her tomorrow, or I could ask Golden if he can get the tape for me and then watch it myself. Hey, and if I survive this, I might even have the chance to go see the arena itself, assuming they preserved them in those days the way they do now. Hah. If I survive. Wishful thinking.

Chaff exits soon after Ivy, leaving March and me alone. It occurs to me that I haven't really talked to him or gotten to know him, and that seems like a good idea. We'll be allies in the arena… right? "So," I say. "How are you feeling?"

"Scared," he replies. "Definitely scared. And my stomach kind of hurts from dinner. I couldn't believe all that food."

I grin. "Me either. How much it would cost in District 11 to prepare a meal like that?"

"I can't even guess."

"What do you think the Capitol will be like?" I ask. I'm not totally sure myself. From what I've seen on television, the most obvious feature is how weird the people look, but I don't know how things are there beyond partying around Hunger Games time. Existence in District 11 is fundamentally centered on working and trying to stay alive; without these, what would life be?

March considers this for a moment. "It's probably beautiful," he says. "People with that much money wouldn't settle for living anywhere that wasn't beautiful. Do you think everyone there acts like Golden?"

I think of the Capitol people I've seen before and their behavior. There's Golden, exuberant and preoccupied; our last escort was much the same. Caesar Flickerman is showy and charismatic. Then there's President Snow, so serious and unsettling. The common trait among the group is that they're all odd. "They'll each be weird in their own way," I answer, and March nods.

There doesn't seem to be much to say after that, so we part ways and return to the sleepers that Golden showed us earlier. As I reenter the room, I'm shocked by how much nicer this train car is than any building on ground I've ever been in. I almost want to laugh at how wasteful it all is. From the silken sheets on the bed before me to the porcelain dishes we ate dinner on… these indulgent things are deemed vital while people are dying in the districts because they can't afford basic necessities. That is the world I live in.

That night, I have a dream that I'm in an arena similar to Ivy's, a giant maze, except this one is for me alone. It's a punishment, maybe, or a curse. I run and run, trying to find the exit or the center or _something. _And then I can no longer run because the place is being flooded, and I can't swim, so I'm sinking and drowning and finally dying. A cannon sounds somewhere far off.

I don't know exactly what time it is when I wake up, but there's sunlight streaming into the room, so it must be morning. I make the bed and then notice that my clothing from the previous day, which I hung over the edge, is now gone. Fortunately, there's a bureau drawer beside the bed and I grab the first garment I see, which turns out to be a folded-up gray dress.

When I enter the dining car, I find the only other person there is Chaff. He's drinking alcohol; I can smell it as soon as I step inside. When I take a seat across from him, he sets the glass down on the table and peers at me. "I want to talk to you," he says.

"You have my attention," I tell him as someone sets a plate piled high before me. There's a tall stack of bacon, a bun that smells strongly of cinnamon, and pink fruit cut into tiny flower shapes. This time I don't bother verifying that all this food is for me. I just dig in.

"Yesterday, you told me you were good at staying calm," says Chaff. "I want to try something." He picks up a carving knife from the table and pushes it toward me. "I'd like you to take that knife and try to stab me in the hand with it."

I nearly choke on the bit of fruit in my throat. "You… what?"

"Go ahead," he says as easily as though we were talking about the weather. "See if you can do it."

I look at him, trying to figure out what this is about. His expression is totally serious, though, not playful. So I pick up the knife. Chaff spreads his hand out on the table, and I stare at it. OK. I can do this. I focus on the space between Chaff's middle and ring fingers. I count down from 4.

4…

3…

2…

1…

Here we go.

Or not. Before I can even flip the knife over, I hear Golden Laronius saying, "Exactly what do you two think you're doing?" Golden's irritating voice pulls me back into reality. I blink, and Chaff and I turn to see him. Today, he's wearing a white shirt and pants and about forty purple necklaces – with equally purple eye makeup to match, naturally.

"I was helping her," Chaff says icily. "What I'm supposed to do."

Golden looks at Chaff like he's the dumbest man alive. "Oh, spectacular. Now Seeder will be ready to face any hostile _furniture_ she encounters in the arena," he snorts.

"You don't get it," Chaff grunts and picks his glass back up.

Golden turns to me, and his face is pleasant again. "Good morning, tribute!" he says. "Don't let me distract you. Eat your breakfast, by all means. But, well, I do have some things to tell you. I'll have to go get March myself if he hasn't woken up on his own yet, though. There's no point in repeating myself, and I can't very well have only one of you be prepared. Don't you think?"

I nod slowly, still slightly winded from the sudden rise and fall of adrenaline.

Golden trots off, and a few minutes later, comes back with March at his side and Ivy behind him. "Hooray!" he cheers. "The team is all assembled."

While March and I gobble our food, Ivy takes tiny bites of fruit with a small fork, and Chaff crossly continues sipping his alcohol, Golden gives us the lowdown. "We'll be arriving at the Capitol in around an hour and a half. There will be massive crowds there to greet you, so don't be frightened. You'll be taken directly to the Remake Center, where you'll be… well, remade." Golden claps his hands together and shuts his eyes. "Oh, I just love that part. It's like watching a butterfly come out of its carapace."

"Cocoon," Chaff corrects.

Golden doesn't miss a beat. "Yes," he says. "A butterfly coming out of its cocoon. Thank you, Chaff." Then he opens his eyes. "Now I have to warn you that some of the steps your prep team choose to take might be a little, um, unpalatable."

Chaff puts down his glass and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He appears to be in a better mood now, either from having outsmarted Golden or from the booze making its way into his bloodstream. "You might as well just tell them." He looks to March and me. "It's hair removal. They rip it right out of you."

"That's only a little part of it," Golden quickly interjects. "They'll also make your skin and nails glowing and gorgeous. It's nothing to worry about. You'll feel amazing afterward. Plus, then you get to meet your stylists! That's very important."

"Yes," Ivy joins the conversation. "He's right. A good stylist will help you stand out from the other tributes and make an impression on the audience. You want them to remember you. The more memorable you are, the more likely you are to receive sponsorship."

I think back to the tributes we've had in previous years. Sometimes they've looked sort of crazy; other times they've looked pretty good. Although not all the victors from the past have necessarily been knockouts or the most remarkably dressed at the parade, it is true that they each had some quality that made them stand out, whether that was immediately obvious or took a little while to become visible. I will have to start thinking about what that can be for me.

I haven't figured it out by the time we're pulling into the station an hour later. I can hear loud noises, and when I run to the window to find out what's causing them, I see the crowds Golden told us about. We look at each other, them waving wildly and shouting (my name?) and me just standing there, staring. I can't help it. I'm stunned by the majestic city and the strange throng of people within it.

The train slows to a stop, and Golden slowly stands up. "All right then!" he calls out. "Come along, everyone. It's time to get off!"


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as I step out of the train, several Peacekeepers appear and escort me down the path and into the Remake Center. The road has already been roped off on either side, and the Capitol citizens are abiding by the barrier, but I guess they want to give us extra protection or make things seem more ceremonious.

March and I are escorted into the green-tinted building together, but as soon as we're inside, we are taken separate ways. I'm helped onto a wheeled bed, as though I'm a hospital patient, and brought to a wide room with many areas divided by shiny curtains. My bed is pushed into one of the spaces, and then I'm left there. For a moment, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do, but then I see three people approaching me.

My prep team introduce themselves. The woman with the neon orange wig is Lucilia, and the twins, Alvin and Melvina, are her colleagues. Both of them are wearing green lipstick and yellow contact lenses, giving them a slightly snakelike appearance. The trio makes me remove all my clothing, and when I'm fully nude, they start slathering what I eventually ascertain is melted beeswax all over my legs.

"This is going to hurt a bit," Lucilia says cheerfully as she applies a strip of fabric, flattens it smooth, and then pulls it back suddenly, pulling out a large patch of my hair with it.

I yelp and then instinctively cover my mouth. It hurts far more than "a bit," and this is just the beginning. I can hear screeches coming from elsewhere, so I guess all the other tributes are getting this same treatment. Is the point to make us look even younger?

"Sorry, hun," says Alvin. "But at least your hair isn't too thick. That would make it a lot worse."

"That's true," Melvina says as she lays on another piece of fabric. "Oh, you should've seen last year's tributes. Hair like sheep! Had to do two rounds of waxing on that pair." She and Alvin share a giggle over this. Apparently, seeing tributes in pain even outside of the arena is just as entertaining for them.

After what feels like about six years, the torturous hair removal ends. My arms, legs, and armpits are now perfectly smooth... and highly irritated. I reach down to touch them, but Lucilia stops me. "No, no, dearie," she says. The twins start rubbing minty green goop all over the places they waxed, which takes the edge off the pain and tones down some of the redness.

Then, with no warning, the bed is in motion again, and I'm sped down a series of hallways and finally deposited in a small pink room with nothing but a mirror and a clothing rack that holds only a robe. Having now been totally nude in front of strangers for a few hours, I jump at the chance to actually wear something, so I grab the robe and put it on before sitting back down on the bed.

I don't have to wait long this time. The door springs open and in walks my stylist. She's a short, plump woman with a black bob, enormous black eyeglasses, and no makeup whatsoever. Her name is Atia Millhenry, she explains as she grabs my hand and gives it a shake. Atia doesn't bother introducing me to her assistant, a tall woman with sparkly blue hair who seems to be perpetually taking notes on a clipboard.

"All right," Atia says. "Seeder. See-see. Anyone call ya See-see back in 11? I feel like it would work for you. Maybe try it out." It's then I notice that Atia is chewing gum. It sure doesn't slow down her speech at all. "OK, so let me tell you. I've been working with the District 11 tribute gals for my whole career now, and I love it. Love it to bits. 'Tween you and me, you're one of the best from a design standpoint. It's all about color, right? Yeah. So I think, fruits. Veggies. Plants. The palette of nature."

Throughout all this, I'm just watching her and nodding slowly. I don't think I've ever seen a more talkative person in my entire life. And Atia has plenty of ideas, too. At first she wants to do something tree-themed, but then realizes that'd be stealing District 7's style, so that's a no-go. A look that's too farmer-ish can end up giving a District 10 feel, so that's also out. "Why don't you tell me exactly what you do in 11," Atia suggests.

So I tell her. I tell her about the different kinds of apples we grow – the super sweet Honeycrisps, the tart but delicious McIntoshes, the intensely red Romes. Then I tell her about peaches and how careful you have to be when you're checking them for ripeness; a gentle squeeze is all you need. And then I find myself thinking of working in the fields with Carissa, and I'm instantly returned to the realization that I'll probably never see her or Clover or my parents or anyone I love again. The next thing I know, I'm sobbing.

Atia's assistant passes me a handkerchief and kind of pats me on the back. Atia herself looks oddly pleased. "OK, I'm sensing something here. You know what that is? A theme. We love a theme, don't we? A trib who's passionate about her home district. Ugh, I just adore it." She thinks for a minute, and then a huge smile spreads across her face. "See-see Allingham, hometown hero. Is that not great? OK, you're talkin' apples and peaches. And just like that, I'm seeing colors for you. Reds, pinks, greens and yellows. It's autumnal. It's in. Are we getting this? Good. Excellent. The wheels in this head of mine are turning." She blows a bubble with her gum. "OK, I'm ready to get going." On cue, the assistant hands her notepad to Atia, who flips to a new page and starts drawing. Then, without saying goodbye (or anything else), she walks right out of the room.

To my surprise, her assistant does not follow. Instead, she presses a button on the wall I didn't notice, revealing the outline of a door, which she pushes open. She beckons me to follow her, and we walk into an adjoining room, which contains two blue armchairs and a long, thin white table covered in different colored squares. The woman and I each take a seat, and I look down at the squares, trying to figure out what I'm meant to do with them.

"The brown ones are the main course," Atia's assistant says. Her voice is high and very nasal. "The white, yellow, and green ones are the sides, and the pink ones are the dessert. It's something new they're trying." The woman finally meets my gaze. "My name is Patience, by the way."

Looking at Patience up close now, I see it's not just her hair that's sparkly. She has a fine dusting of glitter all over her face. I start to wonder how it stays on, but my thoughts quickly move to the food in front of me. I help myself to one of the brown squares, eating the whole thing in one bite. The flavor is beefy and intensely savory, although the soft texture is a little weird. The yellow squares taste like corn with a hint of spice, but I can't quite make up my mind about what the other sides are supposed to be. For her part, Patience takes little nibbles from a white square.

"Well, what do you think?" I ask her, trying to make conversation.

She puts the square down and stares at it. "I wouldn't personally have chosen this menu," she answers.

Is she shy? Maybe she thinks I'm below her. I have another question, though. "So, where did Atia go?"

"She'll be doing some sketches based on what you two talked about. Then she'll meet with your district partner's stylist and they'll finalize their designs together. You'll be matching for the tribute parade, of course, but you'll have your own unique outfit for the interviews, and later on, if…" Patience's gaze goes back to her half-eaten white square. "If that's necessary."

What she means is if I survive – if I win the Games. She doesn't say that, though, because she knows how unlikely it is.

The next time I see Atia, she's accompanied by March and his stylist, Florus. Our clothes are on their way, but first: hair and makeup. Our faces are dusted with a collection of powders that mask the effects of years of sun exposure and malnutrition and make us look glowing and healthy. We both have shadow brushed onto our eyelids and gloss rubbed onto our lips, but I get a few additional steps: rosy blush for my cheeks and an artificial pair of eyelashes glued on top of my real ones.

"Your eyes are so huge and so gold," Florus says as he helps Atia apply them. "Lucky you." Part of me wants to point out how lucky he is because neither he nor any children he has will ever have to participate in the Games, but obviously, I stay silent.

Then it's time for hairstyling. I don't know exactly what Atia is doing, but when she's finished, my dry, straight strands have been transformed into glorious, bouncy, gleaming waves. March's hair has about doubled in size and has lighter streaks in it. I must admit… we look pretty great.

The most important step comes last – our outfits. Atia and Florus make us cover our eyes as they get us dressed, which ends up taking a little longer than expected as they have to make a handful of adjustments. After all the poking and turning is finished, we're finally invited to see how we look. I'm in a very long dress splashed with pink, red, orange and green tones; March is in a suit of the same fabric. They're quite gorgeous.

"One last thing," Atia says. A gold necklace with a large peach pendant is draped onto my shoulders; March gets a similar one with a silver apple. They're shining beautifully, but I feel a tinge of sadness for March. Both of these are references to me and my story. Surely March told Florus about what he does in 11, yet here he is represented by the work I do. I suppose the stylists must have felt that a potato or beetroot wouldn't be very recognizable, but still, it seems a little unfair. March doesn't appear to mind, though. He's just staring at his mirror reflection, dumbfounded.

Before we leave, we have to get the final approval of Golden Laronius. He walks in wearing the same white and purple outfit from this morning, but now with a jacket added and a second layer of eye makeup. "Well, hello, you two!" he gushes. "From drab to fab. A peach blossom and an apple bloom! It's so fresh. It's so District 11. I love it!"

OK. Whatever, Golden.

Golden and the stylists bring us to the basement of the Remake Center, where all the tributes are boarding chariots. March and I climb onto ours, which is led by four horses that have a bright red coat… for apples, I guess. I take the opportunity to steal a few glances at the other districts' tributes. The girl from District 3 still has her long hair, but it's been styled to be big and frizzy. Maybe she's supposed to look as though she's received an electric shock. I notice that the girl from 9 is unusually tall, and her male counterpart has been fitted in shoes with tall platforms so he's closer to her equal. I stifle a laugh.

The gates on the opposite side of the room are starting to open, so Atia and Florus do the last of their makeup touch-ups and then step back so our chariot can begin moving. The Games' theme song starts to play as the District 1 chariot begins its exit. It's not long before the District 10 tributes are out and we begin leaving, too.

The air isn't cold as we move outside, but it is a little windy. I feel a spark of sympathy for the tributes who are close to naked; there's always a pair, every single year. It is, however, extremely loud. Over the blaring music, I can hear the crowd yelling out the names of the various tributes and districts, including a few shouts of Seeder! There's no way to discern who exactly is calling for me, so I just give a wave and smile to everyone. I turn so that they can all get a glimpse of the shiny peach on my neck, which elicits a chorus of "Ooohs." Nice one, Atia. The crowd throws flowers, and I manage to catch one; then I hold it to my face and kiss it in appreciation. That goes over well. Finally, we begin to near the City Circle, the end of the line. At this point, I've done all I can to make these people like me.

President Snow welcomes us as our chariots come to a stop outside his mansion. "Hello, and congratulations," his voice booms as the music dies down. I'm not paying much attention, though. All us tributes are looking at each other, trying to measure how successful our looks were. This year it's the District 2 tributes who got the nearly-nude style – not that it really detracts from how scary they look, thanks to their muscles and aggressive expressions. Everyone else looks confused, frightened, or embarrassed.

Before I know it, the president's speech is ending, the crowd is going wild once again, and our horses are leading us into the gigantic building called the Training Center. This is where we will stay until the day the Games begin. For most of us, it will be the last place we ever live.


	5. Chapter 5

The bottom floor of the Training Center very much resembles the room we just left in the Remake Center, except this time everyone is getting off their chariots. And here are Atia and Florus and Golden again, congratulating March and me and patting us on the back. We're helped back down onto solid ground and the necklaces are gently removed. Our stylists will hold onto the jewelry, which we'll wear again at our interviews.

Things get a little chaotic as animal handlers arrive to take the horses out and the escorts try to direct their tributes to the right place. The floor number the tributes stay on corresponds to their home district, so there are 12 in all, and March and I will be on floor 11. Everyone from Districts 1 through 4 head through a set of doors and up a set of stairs, while the rest of us roughly divide ourselves in half and board the two wide elevators.

March and I end up riding with the people from 6, 9, and 12. The escorts all chat animatedly while the tributes alternate between staring at the floor and stealing glances at each other. It's a very awkward time.

"Did you see what the tribs from 2 were wearing?" the escort from 6 asks Golden.

"Oh, tell me about it," he answers. "I think their stylist is starting to lose it, quite frankly."

"I don't doubt that," says District 12's escort. "Whatever happened to artistic integrity?"

"Good question," the escort from 9 weighs in. "Apparently some people's idea of fashion is to just be as outrageous as possible."

"No kidding. You should see my mother-in-law," District 6's escort replies, and they all burst out laughing.

Well, I wasn't a big fan of the District 2 outfits myself, but "outrageous"? They're outraged by skimpy clothes and not by the fact that all of us will soon be trying to kill each other. I'm so far past being shocked by the Capitol citizens' behavior at this point, though. Let them be outraged at what they want.

The elevator stops at floor six and the District 6 tributes and their escort step out while the rest of us crane our necks to get a look at their space. Unfortunately, I'm near the back and only get to see a portion of a dining room and a huge chandelier. I try to subtly move a little closer to the door so I'll get a better view of floor nine. It turns out to be very similar, except with yellow and brown-colored furniture and a giant framed painting of growing wheat on one wall. I can't decide if this reminder of their home is a sweet gesture or a cruel taunt.

Now it's just us and everyone on team District 12. I notice that there's a resemblance between them and me; our skin is olive-toned and we both have the same straight, dark hair. What makes me different is my eyes. Just about every District 12 tribute I've ever seen has gray-blue eyes, quite unlike my gold ones that Florus was so impressed by. Other than that, though, I'd probably fit right in.

Floor eleven arrives and the doors open to let us out. As I'm leaving the elevator, I inadvertently meet the gaze of the boy from 12. "See you," I tell him.

"Bye," he quietly replies.

I'm filled with a strange feeling as I watch the elevator doors close and the District 12 tributes disappear, but I'm not sure what it is.

Before I can figure it out, though, I hear Golden squealing, "Ooh, they redecorated!" and I turn around to see the interior of our temporary new home. The walls are a deep green and the entire place is airy, wide, and open. Much of the furniture seems to be made of glass, and it all sparkles enticingly. There's even a small fountain with a tree design, through which cool, clear water continuously flows. It's like a little slice of paradise brought here for March and me to live in. I barely even notice when Golden puts his arm around my shoulder and brings me to my own room, which is down the hall behind the dining area. "I'll get you for dinner," he says and then leaves me alone.

My quarters here are… spacious, to put it lightly. There's actually not a lot of furniture, which isn't too odd, given that this place wasn't intended for long-term occupation. There is, however, an interesting collection of electronic "enhancements." I can choose clothes I want from a screen and then there they are, ironed and folded, in a compartment underneath it. With the press of a button, I can change the room's temperature and lighting – after some experimentation, I discover that turning it all the way to the left will simulate a sunrise, and all the way to the right will completely darken the room and project stars on the ceiling.

Mainly, I'm excited to bathe. As pretty as the makeup and hair are, I'm ready to be back to my old self. Even the bathroom here is luxurious, with shining pearly-white tiles and gold fixtures. When I step into the shower, I'm not really sure what to do; there's a large panel with about 30 buttons, unlabeled. I play around with them and endure ice cold water, spurts of medicinal-smelling soap, and some kind of floral mist before I start to understand how the controls work. The first column is for selecting the temperature of the water; the middle three are for different soaps and the like, and the last one is for different options to dry you off.

When I return to my room, I see that, once again, the clothing I left out has been taken away. I've never seen a tribute wear an outfit twice – who knows what they do with the clothes after. Perhaps they're destroyed, or taken apart and recycled somehow. Another possibility is that they're preserved somewhere, in a museum of the Games. I reckon the most likely answer is that they're auctioned off, enabling anyone who's grown especially attached to a tribute to own a piece of his or her "legacy." In any case, I select a plain, comfortable-looking outfit from my digital closet and spend the next hour watching the Capitol streets through the window wall until I'm interrupted by Golden's knock. Dinner time.

Chaff and Ivy are here, as are Atia and Florus. I'm the last to arrive, and as soon as I take my seat, the appetizer is immediately served. I've barely eaten my first bite of yam-stuffed pasta before Golden speaks up.

"Well, I think you two did very well," he says. "I've been talking to people and everyone's said you were just divine. You have your genius stylists to thank, you know." Florus nods and grins while Atia waves the compliment away.

"That crowd was full of potential sponsors, and you've already made a good first impression," Ivy says. "I'm proud of you."

March just smiles and looks downward shyly, so I speak on behalf of both of us. "Thank you, Ivy," I tell her. I glance around at everyone else at the table. "We'll continue to do our best to um, you know… exceed your expectations." It sounds silly coming out, but everybody appears pleased.

There's silence for a while as the main course arrives. It's an entire roast duck with small, buttery potatoes, thin slices of carrots in a sweet sauce, crisp fried onions, and some leafy greens I initially can't place but then realize is seaweed. As I eat, it occurs to me how all of the districts' efforts are on display here. The silverware and the fountain probably came from 1. Our porcelain dishes would have been manufactured in 2. Most likely, some gadgets from 3 were used in the food prep. 4 must've supplied the seaweed. As for 5, well, the use of electricity is obvious. March and I wouldn't be here if not for the trains made in 6. The wooden parts of this table and building came from 7. All our clothing was surely sewn in 8. The food we're eating was brought from 9, 10, and 11. And the stoves and ovens that cooked all this were probably fueled by coal from 12. So many people and so much work. The Capitol, of course, produces nothing; it just consumes everything… including people.

When the dessert, ice cream studded with cherries, is brought to the table, Chaff declines a bowl, instead opting for another glass of alcohol. He takes a big drink, exhales in satisfaction, and then turns to March and me. "All right, you two," he says. "Here's my question. Do either of you know how to use any weapon? Any kind at all?"

We both shake our heads. What else was he expecting?

"Don't you use… oh, what are those things called," Florus offers. "Those things you use to cut the dead branches off, or whatnot."

"Tree pruners?" Ivy says. "No, the kids don't use those."

"Look," Chaff says. "You can be the smartest, fastest… I don't know, best-looking tribute in the arena, but at some point you're gonna have to defend yourself. You might think, 'Oh, I can just wait things out in a hidey-hole.' But sooner or later, someone will be on your tail, ready to hack your head off, and you'd better be ready to fight for your life."

"Ooh, you know what, See-see dear?" Atia says. "I can see you with twin blades. One on each side; two holsters. OK, yes – titanium? Platinum. And jewels. Definitely get that embellishment for a feminine touch. She's tough, but she's dangerous. A poisonous flower. Peach blossom to foxglove blossom. Yes, yes, yes. Are we liking this? We're loving it."

Golden cuts in. "As nice as that sounds, Atia, I highly doubt the Gamemakers would allow such a thing. Perhaps you can convince a sponsor, though, hmm?" He clears his throat. "Anyway, Chaff has the right idea. I think it would be prudent to use some of your training time to get familiar with weapons. Twin blades or otherwise."

Atia just smiles like, "I told you so" and takes a sip of her drink.

March speaks up then, which is kind of nice to hear. "I'm really not sure about weapons or fighting, though," he says. "How will I know what to train in? I feel like I won't be good at anything."

Chaff looks into his glass and swishes the contents around. "Everybody has some kind of physical affinity for something. Just experiment. Try a few things out. Don't worry about looking silly. Most of the other tributes will be as new as you are."

"Except the Careers," I mutter. In some of the wealthier districts, like 1, 4, and especially 2, there are kids who spend years training for the Games – unofficially. The rest of us call them Career Tributes. Most of the time, they volunteer for the Games (something practically unknown in the other districts), but even when they don't, they still benefit from having spent years with enough food to eat.

Chaff shrugs. "They're only better off if you think they are."

"In other words," Ivy says. "Remember that they have impediments, too. They're often overconfident, first of all. And they don't know how to be hungry. You two do. They're usually not good at being uncomfortable. You two are. They almost always use the same strategy, and there's no reason you can't outmaneuver it."

In a surprising moment of actual helpfulness, Golden says, "And you two know more about plants than the tributes from all the other districts, I'm sure. I think that's valuable."

I can't deny that all three of them are making good points. Maybe I'm better off than I thought. Ivy is right that those of us from poorer districts will probably be able to go longer without food than the careers; maybe we're also better at dealing with pain. And I guess Golden is also correct that some non-Career districts also come with their advantages. I think of the brilliant traps I've seen tributes from 3 put together, the axe-slinging talents of District 7, and how those from 10 must be used to the act of killing and the scent of death. And then there's March and me and the others from 11 with our knowledge of what's edible in the wild. That counts.

After we've finished our ice cream, Golden herds us into the sitting room so we can watch the replay of the tribute parade. March and I and our mentors don't have a lot to say, but Atia and Florus are in constant dialogue.

"How many petticoats is that girl from 1 wearing?" Florus questions. "She could probably jump out of a hovercraft and survive in that dress."

"That's just an abuse of organza," Atia agrees. "And the stylists from 2 went in the opposite direction. Couldn't be bothered to spend a penny of their fabric budget, apparently." The tributes from 3 roll onscreen. "Oh, and would you get a load of the hairstyling on those two?"

"That's got to be a wig on the boy, right?" Florus wrinkles his nose. "They've either back-combed his hair within an inch of its life, or it's a wig made of steel wool."

They like the tributes from 4, whose stylists are old friends of Atia's, but hate the ones from 5. They approve of 6 and 7, but find 8 disappointing; I guess the expectations are high when your district's industry is textiles. It's hard to tell what the outfits for 9 have to do with grain, but then, that's not the easiest subject to work with. The tributes from 10 look silly in their black and white spotted clothes, clearly meant to be reminiscent of cowhide.

And then there's March and me, riding along, me clearly having a better time than he is. Atia and Florus don't have a lot to say about their own work; they just stare closely at the screen, scrutinizing it. Golden actually applauds, though. Ivy smiles and nods, and Chaff shoots me a thumbs up. Watching myself from a third-person perspective is peculiar, and now I'm not so confident. Suddenly the image of March and me onscreen starts to look too… constructed. Our skin seems waxen, our hair stiff, our eyes and mouths so obviously painted over in garish colors. I feel strangely warm and dizzy.

I push myself to my feet. "Excuse me for a moment," I say evenly, and I walk, slowly and carefully, back to my own room. Once I'm inside, I rush into the bathroom, bend over the toilet, and everything immediately comes back up: the meat, the vegetables, the briny seaweed, the ice cream. I throw up and throw up until my stomach feels entirely empty. Then I wash my mouth out with water and sit on the bathroom floor a moment.

I remember once being very sick as a child; I was 10 or 11, and I could barely keep down anything. My parents weren't sure what to do, but they were scared – I knew that. Visiting a doctor or buying medicine would have meant going without food for at least a week, but after almost two days of suffering, I ended up improving on my own. My body fought off the illness without help. Then things were back to normal, back to my routines. I returned to school and work, and my parents went back to their impassive selves.

This time, though, I start feeling better as soon as the last of the food has left my system. When I get back up, I can hear someone humming outside my door. Someone here to check on me? Probably Ivy, I think. But when I open the door and look, I'm surprised to see Golden Laronius instead.

"Hello, pet," he says. "You were getting sick in there, weren't you? Well, no need to fret. I've seen this happen before. You may want to try eating smaller meals throughout the day, yes? In the meantime…" He hands me a packet containing two tablets. "These should help settle things." Then Golden gives me a purple glass bottle. "And don't forget to rehydrate!" He starts to walk away, then stops and looks over his shoulder at me. "You didn't get any on the floor, did you?"

This almost makes me smile. Even when Golden does something truly nice for me, there's always that tinge of Capitol lunacy. "No," I answer. "No mess."

He looks relieved and gives me a smile and nod before leaving.

I head back into the room and open the bottle, which lets out a little hiss as the air escapes. I take a small sip and find that it's carbonated water that's both a bit salty and a bit sweet. It's been well-chilled, and the cold helps soothe my throat as it goes down. Then I tear open the little pack and down the pills with a gulp of water.

Perhaps there's some kind of sleep-inducing substance in the medicine, or I may just be exhausted from the day, but soon after I taking it, I feel a desperate need to get to bed. I end up crawling under the covers with my clothes still on and fall into a deep, dreamless slumber.


	6. Chapter 6

I don't feel a hint of nausea when I wake up the next morning, but I am extremely thirsty. Luckily, the bottle of water that Golden gave me last night is still sitting on the small table next to my bed, so I pick it up and guzzle down the rest. It seems to have lost much of its carbonation overnight, but that's OK. It does just as well at alleviating the dryness in my mouth. I'm quite warm, too, after having slept fully clothed, so I'm glad to peel the garments off and hop in the shower.

By the time I exit, I find that, once again, the pile of fabric I left on the ground has been taken away, and a new outfit is laid out atop the bed. The clothes turn out to be rather unlike anything I've ever worn; they're very stretchy but tight-fitting, making me feel slightly exposed even though all my skin is covered. The red, pink and green palette is back – did Atia select this look for me, or someone who's a fan of her work?

Shortly after I'm dressed, there's the knock of Golden inviting me to breakfast. I arrive to see Ivy and Chaff already there, and after dropping me at the table, Golden leaves to fetch March to join us. When we're all seated, I'm served a bowl of cooked grain and a piece of toast, while everyone else gets eggs, bacon, and fruit pastries.

Golden observes me noticing this discrepancy. "Oh, yes. Sorry, dear, but I asked for some modifications for you after last night. I thought we should give that stomach of yours a break, you know? It's just for this meal, so don't worry. And there'll be plenty for you to eat during training, should you choose to."

I don't know what to think. I'm a bit annoyed that Golden has control over my dietary options. Why can't I just eat what I want? But I catch myself before I can really become irritated. He's trying to help, I reassure myself. I also have to keep in mind that what I have here is much more than what I'd usually eat in 11. When I take a bite of the grains, they're smooth and creamy – not at all like the mush made from tessera rations. As soon as I finish my first bowl, another one is immediately set before me.

Chaff has only eaten about a quarter of his food but seems to be done with it, having already switched back to drinking alcohol. "So, have either of you given any thought to what weapon you want to train with today?" he asks.

I look at March, who's wearing a similar outfit to me but in orange and with short sleeves. "I'm small," he says. "So, something I can do from far away."

"Bow and arrow, throwing knives, boomerang, blowgun," Chaff rattles off. "That's not to say any of those will be available in the arena, obviously. But you never know." He turns toward me. "OK, Seeder. What about you?"

It really hadn't crossed my mind, honestly. In between disgorging my whole dinner and getting some sleep, my thoughts weren't focused heavily on what weapon best suits me. I have to think on my feet now, so I say the first thing that pops into my head. "I might be good with a spear," I try.

Ivy raises her eyebrows. "A spear? How did you come to that?"

Oh, boy. Working backward from a conclusion to the reasoning behind it is not easy. I push the wheels in my head to start turning. "A spear can really deadly, but takes a lot of concentration, right? That's something I'm good at." That sounds OK – now to polish it off. "Plus, I think it would also be good for utility uses in the arena."

Chaff squints his eyes and nods, considering this. "Smart thinking, Seeder," he tells me. "That's the way."

I catch a glimpse of March. He's looking hard at the piece of bacon in his hand. I hope he wasn't hurt by Chaff praising me – the last thing I need is to make my district partner my enemy. "But," I say. "Since March and I are going to be allies, maybe it would be better if we didn't both specialize in ranged weapons?"

That gets everyone's attention. Ivy gives me one of her sad, motherly smiles. March looks from the bacon, to me, to the floor. Chaff scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, of course you'll be allies," he says. "But I would say… well, the best thing would be for each of you to become comfortable with your weapon of choice. So don't worry that much about other factors."

Other factors. I decide then and there that I don't like this phrase.

Ivy changes the subject. "So, we've talked about this a little already, but both of you said you're pretty good with plants, right? It might still be worthwhile to brush up your abilities, even if it's only for show. You don't necessarily want the other tributes to know what your strengths are."

"And remember, no guarantees," Chaff warns. "The Gamemakers might decide that the arena will only be filled with genetically-engineered plants you've never seen, or maybe even no plants at all, with only hunting and meat to sustain you."

"I don't think they've ever done that," Golden points out. "But yes, I suppose it is possible. You never know what those creative minds will come up with."

I don't believe I've seen a Games where there wasn't at least some familiar plant life. Occasionally the arena is somewhere rather barren, though. I remember one awful time when the arena resembled a city with numerous houses whose refrigerators were stocked full. But all of it, every last bit, was poisonous. The only food that could be safely eaten was the stuff at the Cornucopia and whatever the tributes could hunt or forage growing wild. A lot of tributes died quickly. Even once it was known to all that the contents of the refrigerators were lethal, many tributes, crazed with hunger, broke down and ate it anyway. I only hope it made for a less agonizing death than succumbing to starvation.

After breakfast, March and I get back in the elevator so Golden can deposit us on the very lowest floor of the Training Center, which turns out to be a subterranean level I didn't know even existed. The elevator stops to pick up the tributes from District 9, and we check out each other's clothes but don't say a word. No doubt they're as nervous as I am. While I don't expect to get hurt or anything, I will be getting my first taste of how powerful the other tributes are and what kind of damage they could potentially do to me.

March, the tributes from 9 and I all step out into the gymnasium-like room as our escorts return back up. I wonder if they're already gossiping about the other kids' athletic clothes. Only about half the tributes have arrived, and we aren't allowed to get a head start, so everyone just has to wait around. Our district numbers have been adhered onto our backs, making it easy to identify the others, but by now I've already started becoming familiar with who's who.

The sickly boy from 6 looks marginally better – a few days on Capitol fare must've helped, and the chubby guy from 8 is still as round as ever. I guess they aren't going to cut the girl from 3's hair at all; it's been styled into a mess of braids and stuck to the back of her head. The only Careers here are those from District 4, although they're usually not quite as brutal as the others. The boy even half-smiles at me when he catches me looking. Oops.

Once everyone has shown up, the training master starts explaining how the day will work. There are stations throughout the gym that we can visit and utilize as we'd like. We're not to spend too much time at any single station so that all the tributes have a chance to try out everything they want to. Aside from the stations, we can also practice fighting with either dummies, moving targets, or professional assistants. Fighting with other tributes is, of course, prohibited. No word on what the punishment is, though.

There's not really any reason for March and me to stay together, so when the instructions are finished, we give each other a nod and then head in our own ways. I figure I might as well start off with the spear, since I gave everyone the idea that that would be my signature weapon. In charge of the spears is an older but muscular man who introduces himself as Cicero.

"I've never even held a spear before," I admit.

"No problem," he says.

Cicero demonstrates how I should position my body and move my arms. It feels incredibly strange and unnatural at first, but I find I actually do have a knack for it. As I'd suspected, concentration does turn out to be a major component of hitting the targets. With enough focus, I can push out the surrounding noise and direct all my attention toward what I'm trying to hit, and after a few tries, I manage to toss the spear into the highest-scoring area.

"Very good!" Cicero cheers me on.

Just then, I see the tributes from District 1 approaching. Their outfits are blue and gold. This is my first time seeing the girl up close, and… well, let's just say she isn't a great beauty. "Hi there," she says to Cicero, completely ignoring me. "This looks like fun." Then, without another word, she picks up a spear and throws it, and hey, what do you know – it lands just a bit further than mine. "Wow!" The girl exclaims in fake enthusiasm. "Looks like I have a natural talent for this. Guess I won't be needing any training!" She throws a smug smile my way and then prances off. The boy glances at Cicero and me and starts to say something but stops and just trails after her.

"Get a load of her," Cicero says and rolls his eyes.

I giggle, and I find myself feeling so thankful for this small token of support that I want to hug him – though I don't. But this makes me remember what Ivy said: yes, Careers are going to be better at combat, but they also tend to be arrogant, and that's not exactly an endearing characteristic. If Cicero were a sponsor right now, I'm pretty sure he'd choose me over the District 1 girl.

After my spear-throwing lesson, I reckon I may as well try something else I have no experience in, and I make my way to the camouflage station. The short boy from 9 is here, and I half expect him to get up and leave as soon as I draw near, but instead, he grins and holds up his arm, which has been painted to resemble wood. "Wow," I say, and I mean it.

Unfortunately, painting doesn't come to me the way spears did. In fact, I'm not very good at it at all. The instructor for the station, a woman whose lips and teeth have both been dyed bright pink, tries to inform me of this politely. "I think you've made excellent progress for now," she says. "Wouldn't you like to give something else a go?"

I take the hint and move on. Next, I attempt knife throwing, and to my delight, I discover that I'm even better at this than spears. I practice alongside the boy from 2, and while he doesn't have any teasing comments for me, he does pause to look at me with an intensely hateful expression. I'm starting on my second set of knives when a bell sounds and a voice announces that it's time for lunch, so we should all head to the room adjoining the gym. With that, a pair of doors I hadn't noticed opens, and we all walk through them.

I'm greeted by a bright, tiled room with about a dozen food carts and tables. For once, there's no one here to babysit us, and we're left to sort ourselves out. Unsurprisingly, this ends up involving the Careers shoving their way to the front to choose food and seating before anyone else can get a chance. The rest of us organize ourselves more civilly, and when it's my turn to fill my plate, I decide to take a little bit of everything.

Then I'm faced with the daunting task of finding the right place to sit. The tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 are all close together, chattering loudly. My first inclination is to get as far away from them as possible. Fortunately, I spy March and wave him over to me as I take a spot on the opposite side of the room.

"How was your morning?" I ask as he plops down beside me.

March doesn't look too happy. "I tried out the weapons Chaff said I should, and I didn't do very well at any of them."

I veer away from mentioning my success with the spear and throwing knives. "There's a lot more to try, though," I say, hoping I can encourage him. And I really do want March to get comfortable with at least one weapon; it'll make him a better ally, and the stronger our alliance is, the greater the chance that one of us might survive.

I'm surprised when I see two other people walking toward our table, and March looks absolutely dumbfounded. "Who are they?" he whispers.

"They're from 9," I answer him, then turn to smile at the newcomers. "Oh, you washed off the paint," I say to the boy.

"The paint?" March asks.

"At the camouflage station," I explain.

The District 9 tributes introduce themselves; he's Emmer and she's Annona. The boy is very outgoing and eager to talk to us, while the girl is quieter. I can't blame her, though. I know what Chaff would tell me, that just as much as we shouldn't pity our fellow tributes, we also shouldn't become friendly with them. But who's to say the Careers are the only ones who can make alliances with other districts? Although… the ugly truth is, I doubt the tributes from 9 would be the most valuable allies out of all my options. It makes me sad to realize I'm thinking this way, looking at my fellow tributes only in terms of their potential usefulness, but what other choice do I have? I decide that later tonight, I'll see what Ivy and Chaff think about this. For now, though, I'll just enjoy this beef… and hope I keep everything down this time.


	7. Chapter 7

So. Training continues on for three days, punctuated by lunches with my fellow tributes and breakfasts and dinners with my mentors, who take each opportunity to give me all kinds of advice about what I should be doing. Chaff is pleased that I'm getting good at the spear and throwing knives, but says that it's pointless to start thinking about allies at this phase. "They might be nice to you now, but who knows what they'll do when you're actually in the arena? You just can't trust anyone," he says. I don't pursue that line of discussion any further. Meanwhile, March still hasn't become an expert with any weapon, but he's been doing quite well with some of the practical skills; unlike me, he excelled at camouflage painting, knot tying, fire starting, and water purifying. None of this appears to impress Chaff, but Ivy and I congratulate March.

On the second day, I stand and watch as the girl from 6 tries the edible plants test. She takes a long time, and I complete the test alongside her in my mind. Her result is a grade of 50%, which the instructor says is "pretty good." I'm relieved to see I would've gotten a perfect mark. I stay away from actually doing the test for real; while my abilities with the weapons are going well, I do wonder if my knowledge of vegetation is really my greatest asset. So I'll keep it hidden.

March and I eat lunch together and talk about our progress. He tells me he's become all right with a dagger. "I hide in the shadows," he says conspiratorially. "Then I jump out and stab and then go back into hiding."

I watch March as he speaks. He seems to have somehow aged years in the brief period of time since the Reaping. Yes, he's gained some much-needed weight, but it's not just his appearance. His voice, his gaze, and his words are… harder. Have I changed the same way? I must have. Consciously or not, I've been preparing myself to become a killer. All of us have, and it's horrible and disgusting. There's a part of me that wants to scream and run, to shake the shoulders of those laughing Careers. But I don't. I stay put and listen to March. And I remain calm.

During lunch on the following day – the last one for training – we'll each have the opportunity to show off what we've learned for the Gamemakers. As always, events proceed in district order, so March and I will be near the end, while the unfortunate boy from District 1 has barely had the chance to eat a spoonful of peas before his name is called and he's forced to leave the cafeteria to give his performance.

At breakfast, Chaff asked March and me what we planned to do during our private sessions and was none too pleased with March's plan to display his new talent for building snares, telling him to demonstrate what he can do with a dagger instead. For me, he just said to choose whatever weapon I'm most comfortable with and give it all I've got. By the time they call for March, I've decided on the spear. It's more… dazzling, I guess? Although I would say I'm technically better with the throwing knives, I don't want to do something too similar to March. Also, being given a high score is not necessarily a good thing; often, these tributes are the first ones that the Careers hunt down and eliminate.

After March exits, I'm left with only the tributes from District 12 in the cafeteria. They sit together but don't look at each other often. I think they're close to the same age, and 12 is pretty small in terms of population, so I'd presume there's probably a good chance they already knew each other before the Games. Why aren't they talking? While I'm pondering this, I hear the name Seeder Allingham called over the loudspeaker, and that means it's my turn.

The gym has been rearranged, with all of the weapons together on a rack in the center of the room. Some of the supplies from the skill stations are here, too, including the camouflage paint and several different ropes. I'm not really sure what kind of score you can get by choosing that route. Even if you're extraordinarily good at painting your face into nothingness, does that really indicate how dangerous of an opponent you'll be?

The Gamemakers are all positioned on a balcony above the gym where they can watch everything down here, and I can gaze upward and see them equally clearly. The only one I recognize is Faustine Sweet. She's rather frightening to behold – not just because she's the Head Gamemaker, but also because of the way she looks. Extremely thin, extremely pale, and with long, sharp fingernails, she reminds me very much of a spider. Her responsibility is to make sure the Games are interesting, and a large part of that is coming up with compelling ways of killing us tributes. I have the feeling that Faustine has been watching us all very closely.

"Welcome, Seeder," she says to me now. "Please begin when you are ready."

I nod. By this time, only about half the Gamemakers are even watching. It's bad luck to be placed so late in the order of performances; they're obviously bored by now. Oh, well. I pick up a spear as planned and proceed to the testing area. A series of hoops hang from the ceiling, and my task is to throw the spear such that it sails through the center of each hoop and hits a target on the opposite wall.

Right. I can do this. I angle my body and position my arm the way Cicero showed me and focus all my attention on the target. I have to push out the noise – the chatter as the Gamemakers talk and the clinking of their glasses as they drink from them. I just need to ignore it all and concentrate on what's in front of me. I narrow my eyes, staring intently at the target.

And then something funny happens. My mind decides to play a little trick on me, and suddenly I see the face of President Snow overlaid on the target. I take a step back, surprised, and then I can't help but start laughing. That's my brain's way of helping me out – showing me what I really want to throw a spear at!

"Is something amiss, Seeder?" Faustine Sweet asks, pulling me back to reality.

"Uh, no," I stammer. "I just… got distracted is all." It seems I've drawn the interest of a few more of the Gamemakers, at least. Some of them are taking notes._ Laughs for no reason. Possible psycho._ Of course, I hope that's not what they're writing for real. Tributes who are perceived as, or prove themselves to be, crazy never end up being especially popular with either sponsors or audiences. Brutality is one thing but actual insanity is another. I clear my throat and turn back to the target. This time, calming myself and sharpening my focus are a bit more difficult knowing that I've already embarrassed myself; plus, now, even more Gamemakers are watching.

I reassume my position, get a good grip on the spear and… release! It soars through one, two, three, four, all five hoops! To my dismay, though, it falls to the ground short of the target. Still, I get a few claps from the balcony. Faustine just nods and tells me I can return to the District 11 suite.

I walk back to the elevator, wondering what kind of impression I've left. Will they really think I'm mentally unstable, or will they write my laughter off as just a little quirkiness? I'll find out this evening, when all the scores are broadcast on live television. I'm hoping to pull a five or six – not high enough that I'll be a preferred target for the Careers, but not so low that I'll be disregarded. That's not to say a low score is an automatic death sentence; tributes with threes and fours have won before. Sometimes tributes have even intentionally performed badly during the private sessions to appear weaker than they really are, only to reveal themselves as ferocious killers later. Adopting this strategy requires a certain kind of nerve that I do not have, I think.

When I get back to the floor, everyone's in the sitting room, including Atia and Florus. "There you are," Golden says when I arrive. "We're all just itching to hear about how your session went. We've been very patient and haven't even heard from March yet."

March smiles sheepishly and nibbles on a cookie.

"All right," I take a seat on the end of one of the sofas. "I used the spear, like Chaff told me to. I got it through all of the hoops but I didn't manage to hit the target." I turn to Atia. "But actually, my main weapon in the arena is going to be throwing knives. So maybe I'll need those twin holsters after all." In response, Atia gives me a grin and a wink.

"What about you, March?" Chaff asks. He sounds annoyed.

"I did my dagger act like we talked about," March answers. "I don't know what they thought of it, though. They didn't say much."

Chaff exhales loudly and crosses his arms. I fear we've both let him down. "As long as the two of you did your best, that's all that matters," Ivy says gently. "Now, would you mind if we mentors chatted privately for a little while? We'll call you when dinner is being served."

I nod and then get up to go to my room. What I'd really like to do is get back in that elevator and leave this building altogether. Hypothetically, I _could_ return to the first level, but surely it's manned by Peacekeepers just in case any tribute is naïve enough to actually try to escape. The district suites aren't guarded, though, so I think I could technically go visit another floor. I can't even imagine how weird that would be – little old me waltzing into the District 2 parlor, squeezing myself onto a sofa between their two muscular tributes, and going, "Hey, guys! What's shakin?"

Thankfully, I'm alone in my room this time when I laugh out loud to myself. I must've slept poorly last night to be so silly today. I need to be doubling down on the placid persona I've been projecting, not letting it fall apart. As I'm calming myself, I overhear discussion coming from the sitting room, and I open my door halfway to get clearer sound.

"They're just kids," Ivy is saying. "I don't think either of them has even touched a weapon before this. You remember how it was."

"Yes, you really should be more supportive," says Golden.

"Don't tell me what to do," Chaff grunts.

_"Chaff_," Golden says, his voice uncharacteristically angry. "Do you know what I've been doing since we got here? I have been running around town, working my connections, doing everything I can to drum up interest with potential sponsors. I've been doing my job. So when I see you not doing yours, yes, I will tell you what to do."

Ivy coughs. "I think what Golden means is that… well, you could encourage them a little more instead of always being so critical."

"All right, all right," I hear Chaff say, and then he stands up. "Look, I'm gonna go… think things over. I'll be back for dinner." The elevator doors open and close.

Then Golden stands, too. "Well," he says. "Anyone for more coffee?"

Soon after that, the dialogue descends into more typical Capitol babble about what various people wore to this and that event – nothing I care about. I end up passing the next few hours by taking a shower, changing into some fresh clothes, and trying out more of the room's strange devices. I'm excited, though, when Golden finally summons me to eat. I'm not extra hungry or anything; what I'm really looking forward to is what takes place after dinner, when the scores will be revealed.

There's very little conversation as we eat our noodles and shrimp, and I decide to take it upon myself to break the silence. "Golden," I say. "Do you know Faustine Sweet?"

"Hah," he replies. "Well, to be honest, she and I are… in different social circles. But yes, I'm acquainted with her."

I don't see how they could be in such different circles when they're both so closely affiliated with the Games.

"She's scary," March murmurs.

"Oh, what a thing to say, March!" Golden scolds. "How would you like it if someone said that about you?"

"Well… it would be good, wouldn't it?" March says with a small smile. "If people in the arena thought I was scary?"

"We'll make sure they're terrified," Florus assures him.

Finally, it's time for the scores to be announced, and we all pile in front of the television to watch. Caesar Flickerman begins with his usual introduction about how excited he is and how wonderful all of us tributes are. Then they begin sharing the scores. A photo of the tribute and his or her name appears onscreen and then the number pops up below it. The Careers all get nines and tens, as usual. The overweight boy from 8 gets a score of two, the lowest of everybody. Annona manages to get a nine, too, which is exceptional for a non-Career, and I wish I knew what she showed the Gamemakers. At long last, Caesar comes to District 11. March earns a five, while I'm awarded a seven.

Everyone looks happy… probably more so for me than March. Quickly, I give his shoulder a squeeze and say, "Good job." In reality, a five is about average, but he certainly could've done much worse. And March's strength is in survival skills, anyway, not weaponry. As for me, well, a seven is good. Better than most, actually, but maybe not enough to convince sponsors. Interviews will be the day after tomorrow, and arguably, they're even more important than the training scores. The pressure is on.


	8. Chapter 8

There's no outfit selected for me today. Oh, I'll still be training, it just won't be in the gym; I'll be getting prepared for my interview. I'm even more nervous for this than I was to present for the Gamemakers, and rightly so, I think – an enormous audience will be watching me this time. There's also the fact that interview performance almost always outweighs training score. It's not at all uncommon for a tribute to get a mediocre score but then be so attractive or likable during interviews that he or she receives enough sponsors to last quite a while in the arena.

I head down to breakfast on my own this time without being called, and when I get to the dining room, only Golden Laronius is there, painting his nails. So as not to break his concentration, I wait till he's put the brush back in the bottle before greeting him with a "Good morning!"

Golden bounces a little and turns toward me. "Well! Hello, Seeder. I didn't know you were here." He glances back to the polish. "Oh… you must think I'm incredibly rude, don't you? Me doing this here instead of in private? I'm sorry."

Once again, I'm amused by the stupidity of the Capitol's warped values. "Golden, you can do your nails wherever you want, as far as I'm concerned," I say pleasantly and then sit down in my usual spot.

"Well… all right, but… you wouldn't mind keeping this between us, would you?"

"Sure," I answer with a shrug. Who better to share a secret with than a tribute, after all? There's a 23 in 24 chance they'll take it to the grave.

Golden looks relieved. "Thank you, Seeder. I knew I could count on you." He packs the nail polish away, and as if on cue, the servers start bringing out the platters of breakfast food. This seems like a good opportunity for me to possibly get some information out of him about what the sponsors are thinking so far, but Golden stands up right away. "You know, it would be more polite to wait till everyone's here before we eat, don't you think? I'll go get them."

While Golden is rounding up everyone else, I watch as tray after tray is brought to the table. As a man is placing one of them down, I tell him good morning, and he just nods in response. "How long have you been working here?" I try. He pauses, looks at me, then points at his mouth and shakes his head. He… can't speak? Oh. Now I feel awful. Have I embarrassed him? "I'm sorry," I say quietly, sinking into my chair. But the man smiles and shrugs, as if to say, How could you have known?

March trudges in slowly, rubbing his eyes. "I feel like I barely slept last night," he groans.

"Up and at 'em, pet!" Golden says cheerfully, giving March's shoulders a light squeeze. "You two have a lot to do today." Then he rushes off again, this time returning with Ivy. "Goodness," Golden exclaims as he takes his seat. "They should change my job title to 'People Collector!'" He starts chuckling, but when no one joins in, he quickly clears his throat and wipes his face of amusement. "All right," he says. "Today, you'll be getting ready for your interview. You will have to be utterly charming, yet totally believable."

"Golden is going to be instructing you in your presence, meaning your confidence, how you carry yourself, and such." Ivy says. "I'll be helping you with your content, so, how to answer questions, how much to say and what to avoid. Chaff is… sitting this one out, but I think he's already done a wonderful job providing you two with some guidance."

Weird. I wonder where Chaff is. I really am looking forward to spending more time with Ivy, though. She has the biggest heart out of any of them, and she may very well be the only one who actually cares about me. However, it turns out that I'll actually be starting off with Golden while March trains with Ivy first. After a few hours, we'll switch.

I'm kind of curious as to how Golden is going to improve my presence, though. He tells me he'll meet me in my room, and about fifteen minutes later, he returns with a cardboard box. "Now, don't be intimidated," he says. "But I'm afraid this might be quite difficult at first." He opens the box and out comes a pair of strange shoes with tall, pointy heels. The next thing I know, he's placing them onto my feet and helping me stand up.

After about an hour of practice – which includes several instances of me falling on my face, and one of Golden putting on the shoes himself to demonstrate what I'm supposed to do – I'm able to walk across the room in the high heels. At first I think this means the lesson is over, but then we have to spend another thirty minutes "refining" my walk, because as Golden says, "Right now you're trotting in a straight line like a pack animal. You need to move _gracefully_, my dear." Eventually, I ascertain that this means taking longer, lighter steps and swaying my hips a little. I think it looks ridiculous, but Golden is pleased.

Next, I have to learn how to wave properly. It comes as news to me that there's a correct and incorrect way of waving, but Golden assures me that is the case. Apparently, shaking your hand back and forth or flapping your fingers are both sub-par. Instead, I'm supposed to hold my palm face-up and make a swirling motion in the air. That's easy enough, but trying to fix my posture according to Golden's specifications is a major pain, both literally and figuratively. Hearing "Head up, shoulders back" what feels like several dozen times brings me dangerously close to smacking him, a compulsion I suppress by gritting my teeth. "Don't force a smile that way," he says, blissfully unaware. "Your natural one is much prettier. You're quite lucky you won't need any training in that." And then I'm left confused, wondering if maybe I do like him after all.

Finally, Golden gives me a few insider tips. Running my fingers through my hair frequently is a good idea, I should wave to the audience as often as possible, and if I ever don't know what to say, I can always just go, "Oh, Caesar!" and then smile like the two of us are sharing a secret. "And one more thing," Golden says. "Make sure everybody knows your name. Even the other tributes, if you can."

I don't know how I'm going to achieve that, but I promise him I'll do my best.

At 1 p.m., we all reconvene in the dining room. I have no clue what March discussed with Ivy, but he spends lunchtime looking kind of distracted, so whatever it was, it must have given him a lot to think about. Neither Golden nor Ivy says much during the meal, and it dawns on me that they're keeping our strategies secret. Yes, we'll be allies, but still competitors. If it were to be down to only March and me… well, that's terrible to think about. I couldn't really kill March, could I? But if the answer is no, then the real question is, am I truly capable of killing anybody? "You'd better be" – that's what Chaff would say, I bet.

After lunch, Ivy and I sit in my room together. "So, Seeder," she says, her maternal voice so pleasant. "I've seen you have more of a stoic personality. You always come across as so calm and collected. That seems to be serving you well so far – do you want to continue with that image in your interview?"

If Ivy has noticed, then I guess others probably have, too. Is that good? If other tributes think of me as being composed, maybe that'll encourage them to take me more seriously. But I don't know if it's enough. "I'm not sure," I tell her. "Do you think that will make sponsors like me?"

"That's hard to say," Ivy says. "To be honest, trying to predict what sponsors will respond to is more challenging than you might think. They surprise me every year. You've also got to keep in mind that each of them have their own personalities and traits that they prefer, so you might easily earn favor with one sponsor but be overlooked by another."

That makes sense. I try to think back to previous Games to remember what kinds of people have received many sponsorships. Being physically attractive is always useful, but I'm confident Atia is doing everything she can to help me in that department. What else? The most savage killers have been favorites, but so have intelligent tributes who predominantly fought in self-defense. Occasionally, there have also been tributes who were memorable in another way, and being very funny, brave or flirtatious was the key to getting sponsorships. Then there were tributes who were just plain weird; I remember one boy – I think he was from 4 – who just mewed like a cat in response to all of Caesar's questions. In the arena, a sponsor sent him a pair of brass knuckles with feline claws attached. "Being entertaining really seems to be the most important thing," I say. "Is there a way I can do that while still being myself?"

"Entertaining," Ivy repeats. "Yes, that's right… That is what they want, to be entertained. I never recommend faking a personality, though. Not because the Capitol people are especially discerning, but because it's just emotionally exhausting to pretend to be someone you're not for a long period of time."

I wonder how Ivy knows that. Is it something she's had to do herself? Does she have a secret person inside her who isn't quite so comforting? I'm not certain I want the answer. "OK," I say. "So I should be myself, then?"

"You, but… enhanced." Ivy furrows her brow, visibly thinking hard. "All right, why don't we try this? I'll be Caesar, and you be you, and just answer the questions the way you normally would."

I nod and immediately rearrange my posture into the stance Golden so lovingly drilled into my head. Then Ivy begins the questions. What's my best talent? What did I do to get my training score? Who did my hair? "Something you may have noticed," Ivy says, "is that Caesar never asks the same question twice in a year. Every tribute's interview is unique. In theory, this is to keep things interesting, but if you ask me, I think it's because the audiences have some odd fascination with seeing tributes be put on the spot. So far you've done well with everything I've thrown at you, though. That will be valuable during the real interview."

When it comes time for dinner, I feel as contemplative as March looked earlier. As happy as I was to spend time with Ivy, I still feel confused about how I should act during my interview. How do I be "me, but enhanced"? I still haven't figured it out by the time I'm falling asleep that night.

The next day is something of a blur. I'm awoken early by a grouchy-looking Golden, who carts March and me into the dining room for our breakfast. He doesn't stay, and neither Chaff nor Ivy are here, so I'm a little perplexed about what's going on. March and I don't talk much beyond a mutual acknowledgement that we're both tired. As the plates are being cleared away, however, I hear the elevator doors open and a voice I know calls out "Hello! We're here!" It's the one and only Lucilia. In the next moment, six people walk into the dining room – my prep team and March's – and the two of us are being escorted back into our bedrooms.

Frankly, I hadn't expected to ever see them again after the first time, but it does make sense that I would need to be _remade_ yet again before my interview.

"These nails need help badly," Melvina scoffs. "Have you been eating with your hands or something?"

"At least we don't have to tweeze her knuckles," Alvin says with a snicker. Me, I wish I could tweeze these two right out of my life.

After Lucilia and the twins have perfected my nails and scrubbed my skin smooth, Atia and Patience show up. They have my interview dress, but naturally, I'm not allowed to see it until my hair and makeup have been done. The gold peach necklace is placed on me again, and then my eyes are dusted with a heavy layer of gold powder to match. This time, I'm given two sets of false eyelashes on top and one for the bottom.

"We've got something extra special for you tonight," Atia tells me. "I don't like to toot my own horn, but I've gotta say, I think this is pretty wonderful. Pretty extraordinary. Ya know what I mean." Patience hands Atia a small bottle. "Now, this'll feel a little funky for a minute or two, kay?" Atia says. "But don't you worry. This is lab-tested. You're gonna love it, absolutely love it."

Then Atia tilts my head back, and I start to realize what's going to happen. Whatever is in that bottle is going to go inside my eyes! I take a deep breath. _Relax, Seeder. Atia isn't a madwoman. She's trying to help you._ And then I watch as Atia squeezes a drop of liquid into the corner of my eye. I let out a sigh of relief as I find it doesn't hurt, just tingles a bit. My vision is slightly blurred for a couple of seconds, then back to normal. I barely even feel anything when she does the other eye.

Everyone gathers around to look at me. Atia smiles proudly. "I told you it would work."

"Brilliant," says Patience.

"Amazing," says Lucilia.

"We love it," Alvin and Melvina say in unison.

"Let me see!" I say, now getting excited myself. Patience holds up a mirror, and as I look into it, I realize the liquid has some kind of color-enhancing property. My eyes are now strikingly bright, like two intense pieces of amber. With the addition of all the eyelashes, it's pretty much impossible to look at my face without being drawn to my eyes. "Wow," I say.

The team gets to work on my hair, spraying it with various things and prodding it with tools I can't identify, but I'm simply unable stop looking at my eyes. They're almost like an owl's, but more lovely. I wouldn't mind them being like this all the time. "How long does it last?" I ask.

"About 24 hours," Atia says. "Terrific, isn't it? I knew it. I absolutely knew it. Look at that! Eyes like honey! And honey, this mane is ready."

This time, my hair is an updo, every strand pushed away from my face and held up with plain clips made from the same gold as my necklace. As it turns out, the only part of the look that isn't in Atia's honey theme is the dress itself. Unlike my chariot dress, this one is all pink. It's also much more revealing, with my shoulders and upper part of my torso left bare. I watch myself in the full-length mirror as Lucilia takes this as an opportunity to brush more gold powder on these areas until Atia says, "Stop. She's perfect."

Everyone looks at me, at this unusual being with enormous, bright eyes, shimmering skin, and a body draped in pink. This is the girl who will go off to the interviews, who will try to be the right combination of engaging and memorable that leads to winning the support of sponsors.

The only problem is that I don't know how she'll do it.


	9. Chapter 9

The stage where the interviews are held is in front of the Training Center. To get there, we ride the elevator back to the ground floor. The escorts and mentors walk out through the main entrance where we all came in after the chariot ride, but we tributes are instead directed to another set of doors on the opposite side of the room. We walk single-file up a narrow staircase, none of us saying a word, and come out onto the stage.

There is… a lot to take in. The stage itself is much bigger than it appears on TV, and the whole area is extremely bright; I almost need to shield my eyes. No doubt we're already being filmed as we take our seats in the leather chairs arranged in a semicircle at the back of the stage. The same track that played during the tribute parade is blaring yet again, welcoming the guests who are filling up spots in the audience startlingly quickly. The front row is reserved for stylists, while escorts get the second. As far as I can see, mentors aren't given any similar special privileges, but I can make out Ivy and Chaff in some relatively OK seats towards the middle. Meanwhile, us tributes are arranged in order by district, with the girl placed to the left of the boy.

I can see multiple cameras aimed in my direction. Obviously, they want to get some preliminary shots of the tributes' outfits, and this also serves a good time for us to size each other up. The District 1 girl looks a bit better, although the makeup job can't really correct her pig-like features. Both tributes from 4 are wearing suits covered in fishing lures – kind of pretty in a very odd way. The boy from 7 has had leaves woven into his hair, which is quite nice. Then there's Emmer and Annona. They've both been put in simple brown clothing complemented by crazy hair and makeup, an approach the District 9 stylists have favored for a few years now. As for March, he's in a multicolored shirt and trousers and, interestingly, a cape. As I'm looking the other tributes over (and they're doing the same), occasionally I meet someone's gaze, and each one shows some variant of puzzlement. My amplified eyes appear to be working their magic.

The music dies down, and the crowd erupts in applause as Caesar Flickerman saunters onstage. He chooses a color theme for each year, and this time it's electric green. If nothing else, it's eye-catching… not that Caesar needs any extra help in getting people's attention. It's a mystery to me how old the guy is – it seems like he's always been around and always will be. After his usual introductory words, Caesar welcomes the District 1 girl to join him in the center of the stage.

She ends up behaving much like her counterpart from last year and acts giggly and seductive, even managing to turn Caesar's question about her weapon of choice into something salacious.

In comparison, her district partner is much more wary and gives vague responses, although when Caesar asks if the boy has a girlfriend back in 1, he looks surprised and says, "Other gender." Now there's something that won't be quickly forgotten.

The tributes from 2 are rarely particularly entertaining, at least in my opinion. As usual, this year it looks like their strength will be in aggression and not in personality.

The girl from 3 has been made gorgeous, with her ultra-long hair incredibly shiny and sleek. I learn that her name is Solus, and her persona is a peculiar mixture of acting flirty and eccentric.

The boy from District 6 has had too much blusher applied, probably to hide his ill health. It's perturbing to watch this puppet-looking person as he struggles to answer Caesar. He only manages to respond to a couple of questions before the three minutes are up.

Annona gives simple, direct replies. I pick up a subtle disdain in her voice, as though she's doing Caesar a favor by talking to him. Acting confident can be a good strategy. I get the sense that Annona is just being her regular self, though. In contrast, Emmer is cheerful and friendly, just as he was when I spoke to him in the cafeteria during training. I believe that this, too, is him being himself.

Wait, Emmer already?! That means there's only two tributes left before it's my turn. I spend the length of the District 10 interviews frantically going through the advice Golden and Ivy gave me in my mind. Play with my hair. Be myself but better. Play it cool. Be memorable. Something. And then the crowd is clapping and the District 10 boy is making his way back to his seat beside me. And that can only mean one thing… it's about to be my turn.

Sure enough, Caesar calls my name and I feel myself stand up and walk down to the center of the stage. My head is up. My shoulders are back. I'm fairly satisfied that I do not look like a pack animal. Since my hair isn't down and loose, I can't run my fingers through it, but I give it a gentle pat as I take my seat. It's already had 20 people in it by this point, so it has become uncomfortably warm, but I make myself ignore this. I give Caesar a giant smile and shake his hand when he offers it to me.

"My, my, Seeder," Caesar says. "That's quite a pair of peepers you have."

Well, he's started with something easy. Luckily. "Yes," I reply, trying to sound dignified. "My stylist, Atia Millhenry, is very talented and creative."

"I may have to make an appointment with her myself!" Caesar exclaims. "I've seen some pretty wacky style here, but never eyes like those!" The camera pans to Atia, who gives a thumbs-up.

I pause for Caesar to follow up with another question, but it looks like he's waiting for me to say something. What do I do? Wait – I know. "Oh, Caesar!" I gush and give my hair another caress. The crowd seems to enjoy that – thanks, Golden.

Caesar quiets them down and then fixes me with a hammy "serious" look. "Seeder, you come from District 11. That's very far away from here. And what I've been wondering is, who do you miss the most from back home?"

I can feel my face fall. I take a deep breath and then let it go. "Well, Caesar… there's my mother and my father. And my best friends, Carissa and Clover, who…" The tears are already starting to form. Damn it! Am I going to ruin everything now? My sadness is starting to be replaced by hatred. At myself, at the Capitol, at every person who's letting these Games happen. But I do what I have done before, when I placed my fists behind my back on Reaping Day; when I suppressed my instinct to run away during training. Ivy said the most important thing for survival was making split-second decisions, and I realize that I've been doing this since day one. I always make the decision not to show my weakness. I think on my feet.

"Are you all right, dear?" Caesar says.

"I'm sorry," I say, sniffling. "I'm just… I'm just so _thankful_." The words come up into my mouth like vomit. "The way everyone here has… seen me, and embraced me, and made me beautiful. Whoever thought that me, Seeder, an ordinary girl, could become something like this?" I motion to my dress. I can't deny that I'm absolutely repulsed by what I've just said. I imagine my parents and friends watching this, seeing me interrupt myself from talking about them so I can praise the people who took me away from them and want to lead me into death. Of course, _they_ know that this is all pretense. I can only hope the Capitol audiences won't figure that out.

Caesar gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Oh, it's all you deserve!" He turns back to the crowd. "Don't you think so? Don't you think our wonderful tributes deserve to look beautiful? Can we get a round of applause for Seeder here?" Naturally, the audience follows the instruction.

"I do have another question for you, and this has been on my mind ever since the tribute parade," Caesar continues after the clapping dies down. "I saw you were wearing a particularly stunning piece of jewelry, and tonight, I see it's around your neck again. Is there a story behind that shiny peach?"

A story? What story would there possibly be? I suspect that "It's just something Atia came up with" is not the correct response. "Well… there isn't that much of a story," I admit. "But, uh, back home, I'm known for being very sweet! Sweet as a peach!" I know it's stupid, but who cares? It's an answer.

Most importantly, Caesar approves of it. He laughs and nods. "I'm sure you are! I'm sure you are sweet!" The audience claps, in agreement, I guess, and then the buzzer announcing the end of my time sounds. Caesar thanks me and then I retreat back to my chair. My eyes find Atia, Golden, and Ivy in the crowd, seeking approval, but their gaze is still glued to the interview seat, which March is now settling down in.

"March," Caesar starts. "You know, I think you're the first March I've ever met. Do you know why your folks named you that?"

"That's, um, when we start planting things," March answers, fidgeting a bit.

"What do you plant?"

"In March? Um, the beets. The cabbage. Broccoli. Carrots. Corn… ah, no. Not the corn, sorry. I'm actually not completely sure about the schedule exactly. But a lot of stuff."

"A lot of stuff," Caesar repeats. "That's quite interesting. Great. So let's talk about how you're feeling about the Games. Have you been getting some good training in?"

March brightens. "Yeah, I'm getting pretty good with a dagger! Well… I'm OK at it." He thinks for a moment. "And I'm quick. So… I think I have a chance of winning, maybe."

Caesar nods effusively. "Yes, I'm sure you do! Quickness is very important. Remember a few years ago, that lightning fast fellow from District 5?"

I know which Games he's referring to. Towards the end, four tributes had been hanging in there for a while, and presumably, the viewers in the Capitol were getting a little bored. The Gamemakers decided to solve this by setting fire to the entire outer ring of the arena, forcing all the competitors to run inward toward the Cornucopia, where there was expected to be a grisly showdown. However, the flames grew out of control and three of the tributes weren't speedy enough to avoid burning to death. The remainder was crowned the winner.

"Yes, I remember that," March answers. "Um, I hope there's no fire like that this year, though. That was pretty scary."

"It was indeed," Caesar says. "It was indeed." When the buzzer goes off, he looks a lot happier.

The tributes from District 12 give their interviews, the anthem plays, and then the show is over. We file out the same way we came, but this time, there's nobody around to direct us. Escorts, mentors, stylists and tributes all try to get into the elevators without any real order, and I end up in a car with Annona, both tributes from District 10, the chaperone for 8, and two stylists whose district affiliation I don't know. None of us speak – we just get off on our respective floors. I'm the last to leave from my car, and as I stumble back into the District 11 suite, I watch as the elevator door closes and immediately descends to pick up another group.

After a little while, Chaff, Ivy, March and the stylists have all arrived, but it's about 15 minutes before Golden finally shows. "Soooorry!" he sing-songs as he steps into the room. "People to talk to. Mingling to do. You know."

"You two were fabulous," Florus says.

"Absolutely beyond," Atia says.

"Everyone's saying so," Golden confirms.

Our dinner that night is the most magnificent yet. No cooked grains for an appetizer this time; we're given a rainbow of caviar and a huge selection of biscuits. The main course is a massive platter of roast lamb with an assortment of grilled vegetables and bread rolls in different shapes. As we eat, I finally hear from the people whose opinion I'm most curious about: my mentors.

"I thought you two did very well," Ivy says. "It's clear you applied what we talked about into your efforts."

Ivy's kindness is as soothing as always, but I find that's not what I want right now. I need a critical assessment of how I performed. For that, I look to my other mentor, who's currently taking a long drink of what I'm certain is not water. "Chaff?" I ask. "What did you think?"

He puts the glass down, looks me in the eye, and gives me a wide, boozy smile. "That crying was something… really something."

"Yeah, how did you do that?" asks March. "It looked real."

"It was," I say, almost angry at his skepticism.

"OK, sorry," March says, retreating. "It's just that… sometimes you seem… well, just like nothing bothers you. You're strong."

What? Do people really think that about me? I look around the table, and everyone is smiling and nodding… except for Chaff, who's still just drinking. Maybe I have shown less emotion than many other tributes, but is that truly a sign of strength? "You can't still think that after how I acted during my interview," I say. "The crying, and then that stuff I said afterward…"

"There was nothing wrong with it," Ivy says.

"I found it quite touching," Golden says. "I don't understand what you're worried about."

Watching the recap after dinner does nothing to calm my thoughts. Am I strong, like March thinks, or am I this sappy girl onscreen? Gradually, though, my confusion is replaced with dread, as I realize this is the final night. The Games begin tomorrow.

I'm not sure why, but it's the stylists who accompany the tributes to the Arena. That means saying goodbye to Golden, Ivy, and Chaff tonight. After the television broadcast is over and Caesar's TV image bids us a goodnight, we all sit together silently for a little while until one by one, we each stand up. Ivy cries and gives March and me tight, loving hugs; Golden looks like he's considering doing the same but instead just touches us each on the shoulder. "Goodbye, pets," he says softly.

Chaff doesn't move an inch closer to us, but for the first time since I've met him, his face shows sadness. When he speaks, his voice is surprisingly lucid. "I wish I could've done more to help you. Neither of you deserves this. Nobody does. Please… be brave, you two."

Neither March nor I say anything. We just watch as the three step into the elevator and disappear. It's strange: I didn't even know these people; then, temporarily, they were some of the most important individuals in my life. And now they are gone again. I turn to look back at March, but he's already left. So I do the only thing remaining to do and retire to my bedroom myself.

I lie in the plush bed in this extravagant chamber. Neither is really mine; they're just loans, things I've been permitted to use for a few days in exchange for my life. It's no shock when sleep fails to come. I decide to try to stave off terror by thinking through all of the people I have met during this time – Golden, Ivy, Chaff. Lucilia, Alvin, Melvina. Cicero, Faustine, Caesar. Florus, Patience… and Atia, who will almost certainly be the last person outside the arena to see me alive.

Then there's March. I'm still counting on him to be my ally, but we haven't planned anything out. Oh, what's the point, anyway? It's impossible to tell what will happen in the arena. He, or I, could die on day one. In the first 30 minutes, even. This will be my last night that I can be positive I'll survive, so why waste it? I think about my parents instead. I really am like them after all. Weird about handling emotion. Always breaking up Carissa and Clover's arguments using logic and reason, finding the underlying flaw in the conflict. That day in the Justice Building bidding them all goodbye feels like so long ago.

I think I will remember it forever.


	10. Chapter 10

As I have before, I start the day by being awoken for breakfast. But this time, it's not by Golden Laronius, and I'm not called to the dining room. Instead, a bell sounds in my room, and as I'm returning to consciousness, a server brings in food on a tray. Breakfast in bed – lucky me. I'm given 20 minutes to eat before a second bell plays and the same man comes to retrieve my dishes, by which time I've eaten every bite. I might be offered some snacks in my Launch Room, but after that, it could be days till I see food again.

I take off my pajamas and put on the first shirt and pants that appear on my closet screen. It doesn't matter what I wear now because I'll soon be required to change into the chosen tribute outfit for this year. As I'm buttoning up my blouse, I realize my hands are shaking. I am very, very afraid. I don't want to die. But that's the only way out of the arena – either I will die, or I will win. Do I even have a chance? I'm pretty good with two weapons. And it seems as though people were pleased with my interview. Hey, maybe there will be a sponsor who likes me. Why not? Thinking that way makes me feel a little better, but not much.

Atia arrives in a pink dress with a pattern of peach images. "You'll never believe it," she says. "But everyone is wearing peaches now in the Capitol. I've even seen some people sporting replicas of your necklace, See-see. Is that not wild? No, dear, it's beyond wild. And let me tell you, you'd be stunned to hear the offers I've gotten for the genuine article. Absolutely stunned. But I've told every one of them, the only person I'll ever hand that jewelry over to is the peach herself." She smiles triumphantly.

Hearing this sends me another small boost of confidence. It's sweet in that weird Capitol way, but it also gives me pause to know that the motif Atia came up with to represent me has become popular. It probably isn't just me who's received this kind of response – I wouldn't be surprised if there are people walking around in fishing lure suits like the tributes from 4 had on. Still, this means something: I have been memorable.

As Atia leads me out of the room, I silently wish it goodbye as I did to District 11. This place was also my home, sort of, but next year it will belong to some other doomed girl. In a few hours, my home will be the arena.

We go back into the elevator, but instead of going down, we go up, past the District 12 floor and onto the very highest level to which the elevator opens: the roof. As we step outside, I'm startled both by both the wind and the appearance of at least a dozen hovercrafts. They're smaller than the ordinary ones, as they're only made to hold three people: the tribute, his or her stylist, and the pilot. I take a brief moment to look around. This is the last time I will see my fellow tributes before the Games start. The last time we won't be one another's enemies.

A ladder descends from the hovercraft, and I begin to climb, but as soon as my hand makes contact with it, I feel a weird tingle and find I can no longer move. This looks to be normal, though; all around, I can see other frozen tributes being lifted into their awaiting vehicles just as I am.

I've never been inside a hovercraft before, and I don't know what I expected, but it isn't anything remarkable. There is a lot of gray, though. Silver metal interiors and two ash-colored chairs make up the main chamber, and then there's the cockpit. As the ladder brings me inside, the freezing effect doesn't immediately deactivate. The pilot, a middle-aged woman, appears with a syringe. "This is your tracker," she says before injecting it into my arm. Then I can move again. I take a seat and shortly after, Atia climbs into the other one.

"You know what," Atia says. "I don't think this is the same craft as last year. Yeah, last time they just had a long bench so the trib and I had to sit side-by-side. She was a lovely gal, really, but it wasn't ideal, if you ask me." She glances around. "Hmm, maybe not a whole new hovercraft, just updated decorating."

I'm actually sort of happy that Atia is blabbing on because it gives me something else to think about, something to distract me from the deep fear growing inside me. It's not long before I have another distraction, though: the view. Looking down on the Capitol this way does make it seem kind of beautiful instead of garish. I think about the people living there, who are safe and sound and will be for the rest of their lives. The two other individuals in this ship with me fit that category, too. I feel curious about them suddenly. How did Atia and this aviatrix come to be involved in the Games? And during the rest of the year, are they designing clothes and operating flights for regular Capitol citizens? Perhaps the pilot brings people to revisit the arenas from past Games, which are left standing – not as memorials, but as… basically, amusement parks.

"Where do you think we're headed?" I offhandedly ask Atia. I realize it's a stupid question as it's coming out of my mouth.

"Couldn't say," she replies. "I think they try to spread the arenas out some, so if I had to guess, I'd bet we're movin' in the opposite direction of last year."

Of course, this doesn't help me in any way shape or form. But it's the only answer I'm going to get. In between watching out the windows, I try to make more conversation. Need to keep distracting myself. "So where will Golden, Ivy, and Chaff go? Did they go home?" I ask.

"Ah, no. They'll be at the Games Headquarters. I'm not sure if you got the chance to see it. It's kinda like…" She holds up her hand to try to show me what she's saying. "OK, so ya got the Remake Center here. Prez's mansion right over here. And then there, in that spot, that's the Games HQ. Yeah, it's a little more hidden, because it's more exclusive, ya know what I mean? Only the Gamemakers, the mentors, and the escorts get to hang out there. Oh, and the president, natch. But no stylists. Anyway, that's where they watch the games and control the sponsorships and whatnot. I bet it's pandemonium with all those types mixing together." Then she moves her face close to mine and speaks in a low voice. "I heard that they give them drugs so they only have to sleep two hours a day. So they can take their eyes off the Games as little as possible, right? Wild."

I try to envision this Games Headquarters. Are there separate areas for the different districts like there were in the Training Center? From what Atia described, it sounds like they all have to live there temporarily. There are probably enough Gamemakers to have them work shifts, so they can sleep normally, and surely they would allow this for Ivy and Chaff as well. But it sounds like escorts (and districts with only one mentor) are out of luck.

Neither Atia nor I has anything else to say, so we each go back to looking out the windows. The view does nothing to tell me where we are. It's not unlikely we've flown above some other districts, but unfortunately, we'd be too high up for me to make out anything interesting. The main feature I'm seeing is a lot of trees. That doesn't necessarily mean the arena itself will be a wooded area, though. They're all specially constructed based on what Faustine Sweet has decided will be the theme that year. Supposedly, as soon as one Games end, the Gamemakers immediately start working on next year's arena.

I don't know how much time I spend in the hovercraft, but near the end of the trip, the windows suddenly become black. This means we're close to the arena, and they don't want me getting a sneak peek. Soon after that, the hovercraft lands. About ten minutes pass before the pilot reappears and tells us it's safe to disembark. With that, the door opens and the ladder waits for me yet again, but this time, I'm traveling down instead of up, and I'm allowed to move normally.

I drop into what I realize is a hallway. These are the tunnels beneath the arena, which house the Launch Rooms that serve as holding tanks for the tributes before we're lifted into the Games. It's possible other things are kept down here, too, but I'll never know for sure. The walls are featureless except for the presence of one, two or three small lights in different colors. This proves to be sufficient information for Atia, though, who knows exactly where to go. Clearly, she's been doing this enough years that she's memorized the sequence of lights that leads to the room for the District 11 girl. Three red, two blue, three red again, one green… we cross paths with another tribute, but his stylist and Atia don't even acknowledge each other. We all just keep walking. When Atia stops me, we're outside a totally nondescript door with no indication it's my room. It turns out to not even be locked; she just turns the handle, and we enter.

My Launch Room is nice enough to almost make me forget that it's underground. In stark contrast to the clinical tunnels that led us here, this place is much friendlier, with furniture, wallpaper, and carpeting. It's nothing too extravagant, given that this room will only ever be used once. The catacombs are left in a preserved state along with the arenas, although I don't know if they leave the furnishings.

Someone else has been here recently, because there's toast and still-steaming tea laid out on the small table in the center of the room. "That's for you, dear," Atia says. I'm not very hungry, but I consume everything on offer.

There's another tiny space attached to the Launch Room that has a shower. It has only a single button, which either starts or stops a stream of lukewarm water on my head, and there's a tiny bar of soap that I use up completely. When I'm finished, the garments I wore on the trip here have disappeared, and new clothing hangs in its place. This is the tribute uniform for this year, a hint at what kind of environment I might be dealing with.

Plain brown boots, green pants and a shirt of the same color, and a white zip-up sweater. Good. Nothing that suggests I'll be facing extreme temperatures or water.

Atia looks over the outfit and starts adjusting the way it fits on me, to make it look… more flattering? I can't see how that would matter, but then, it's typical behavior for someone from the Capitol. "This is polyester," she says while rearranging the sweater. "Good for durability, not so much for heat. Hmm."

Time passes. Every so often I hear soft noises coming from somewhere of indeterminate distance. They must be other tributes entering the tunnels, walking through to find their own Launch Rooms. I expect they'll go through these same rituals: a final meal, a last shower, and then the uniform. One by one we will all do this. I realize I have begun to sit the way March was when we left District 11: hugging my knees to my chest. I'm petrified now; maybe he has been since that day.

"Greetings," a voice says. "The Games will be commencing shortly. Tributes, please proceed to the metal plate in the center of the room. Thank you!"

And there it is. I'm being summoned, called to my death by an anonymous voice in the air. I pry my hands open from around my legs and force myself to push them forward. One small step at a time. It will be OK. I feel my feet making contact with the hard surface of the plate and then stop and stand.

Atia looks at me sympathetically. "Was an honor to dress you," she says, her voice soft. "Good luck out there. Just remember, you gotta stay strong. You've got a whole team of people rooting for you, both at home and in the Capitol. You can most definitely count me among them, See-see."

I try to smile as I nod in reply. Then there's the sound of machinery whirring to life, and a transparent tube is lowering around me as the metal plate below my feet begins to lift. I watch the room disappear as I'm elevated through the ground and up through the earth, up to the surface. Very soon now, the Games will start. The beginning of the end.


	11. Chapter 11

The scent of fresh air is not a welcome feeling. It means I have arrived inside the arena.

My eyes adjust to the light, and I start taking everything in. There is… a lot of forest. In fact, the Cornucopia is entirely surrounded by all types of different trees, many of which would never naturally coexist in the same area. Some kinds are unrecognizable to me.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen!" It's the voice of the Games' perennial announcer, Claudius Templesmith. "Let the Hunger Games begin!"

That proclamation doesn't actually start the Games; instead, it initiates a 60-second countdown, during which all the tributes are required to stay on our plates. We all instantly start doing the same thing: looking around and trying to rapidly form some kind of plan. The Corncuopia is filled with valuable goods, as usual – mainly weapons this year and not as many food packages, it looks like. On my left is the boy from District 3; on my right is the one from District 6, the decrepit-looking guy. Halfway between him and me is a black and blue backpack. For all I know, it could either be totally empty or full of life-saving supplies. I decide I will have it.

30 seconds now. Half my thinking time is gone. I will dive and get the bag and then run in… what direction? Just run somewhere, it doesn't matter. Just get away. There will be plenty of places to hide. One last thing. Where's March? I can't see him; he must be on the other side of the Cornucopia, obscured by its considerable size. The numbers on the countdown drop, and I zero in on the backpack. I do what I have done before. I block out the peripheral images and sound and focus singularly on my target. I am calm.

Then the gong sounds.

Here we go.

I leap off my metal plate. I hear other people running, someone slipping and falling. Noises of pain already. Most always, a large number of tributes are killed in the earliest phase of the Games as they try to recover supplies from the Cornucopia and are attacked by the Careers. It's a little safer here on the outer edges. As I wrap my hand around one of the backpack's straps, I can feel someone brush up against me. Without bothering to check who it is, I forcefully shove the potential aggressor away, hold tight to the bag, then turn on my heel and sprint away into the forest. I can hear sickening wet noises as I disappear into the trees, which means tributes are still being slaughtered. I only hope March isn't among them.

I run for a long time, until I can see no trace of the Cornucopia, and then I slow down. After a while, I start becoming aware of something. Yes, this arena offers cover, yet the ring of trees also makes for a disorientating layout. I was certain I'd been moving in a straight line, but didn't I pass by that tree with the magenta branches before? Huh. Neon pink leaves on a tree. I'm reminded of what Chaff said about genetically-engineered plants; no doubt this is one of them. Not a good place to stay, though – I'll stick out here for sure. My legs ache badly, but I jog a little further to a thicket of more conventional-looking trees where I can hide.

As I sit down to rest my exhausted limbs, the cannons begin. Normally, one sounds after a tribute has died, but on the first day, they wait until the fighting at the Cornucopia has finished and then announce all the deaths at once. How many was it this year? I count as I listen, and the total is seven. Based on previous Games I've watched, that's on the lower end – maybe there were fewer casualties this year because the design of the arena made it easy to run and hide. I'll find out exactly which tributes died during the nightly broadcast, where their photos and district numbers will be projected into the sky.

After the final cannon ends, I settle in to start looking through what I got in my backpack. The first thing I pull out is a silver canteen, which is… full of water! I take a small drink and feel overcome with emotion – thankfulness that I have this precious item. I give the canteen a little hug and then pull out the next item. It's a small packet of dried meat. Good. There's one more thing in there. Another canteen of some sort? It's made of brown plastic instead of metal like the other one. I hear liquid sloshing around inside, but when I remove the top, a strange odor emanates from within. I feel like I should know what this is, but I don't. Well, maybe March will. I really, really hope he survived the bloodbath. We never discussed strategy or anything, but I don't think he's the type who would run toward obvious danger like that.

I need to think. I have food and water for today. What do I not have? That's right – a weapon. If I were to be attacked right now, I'd have nothing but a stick to defend myself with. Hypothetically, maybe I could carve a branch into a rudimentary harpoon somehow, but in practice, I can't imagine I'd be able to do this successfully. I could probably take on a good portion of the tributes if we were both unarmed, but my fists aren't up to the task of rumbling with someone who's holding a sword.

I decide that I'm going to start giving myself little assignments. Number one, which will always remain in that spot, is to stay alive. Got that down for the time being. But what should come next? I need to attain a weapon, find March, and look for another source of food, and more importantly, water. I haven't the slightest idea how I'll get a weapon, though. I don't dare venture back to the Cornucopia – I'm positive that the Careers are still there, sorting through the loot. In most of the Games I've seen before, they don't usually start… hunting… until the first night.

Could there possibly caches of items elsewhere here? Given the style of arena, it seems unlikely. My father always says that there are "plain" arenas and "complicated" ones. The plain variety are like this, wilderness-type areas, while the complicated arenas have some theme to them, like Ivy's Games. I guess I will have to go without a weapon for now.

I've been walking so long now, I didn't notice that the sky is beginning to darken. Has it really been that long since I left the Cornucopia, though? I'd only estimate it as having been a few hours – two, tops – since then. I get my answer in the next moment, when I'm startled by a loud thunderclap. Turns out that the darkening wasn't the arrival of evening, it was a storm brewing! For a second, I debate whether I should dump out the strange liquid in the brown canteen and try to collect some rain to possibly drink, but the decision is made for me when hard, white spheres start falling from the sky instead of water. It's not rain at all; it's hail, and it _hurts_. The stupid Careers are probably lounging under the cover of the Cornucopia, protected from the precipitation and with plenty to eat and drink right now. And here I am getting pelted, the trees offering essentially no barrier – the hail pellets just bounce off the branches and hit me. The only place for me to go is that beach ahead, where… wait a moment. I don't see any depressions in the sand. It's not hailing over there!

I take another swig from my canteen and prepare myself to move again. Then I run straight forward, bracing myself as the hail hits me who knows how many dozen times. When my feet make contact with sand, I start slowing down and then come to a stop. Yes, the hail is falling in the forest only. The Gamemakers must have done this to get us to make us leave the trees and explore more – and run into other tributes, they're probably hoping. That's the last thing I want, of course… unless I can find March.

Arriving on the beach fills me with mixed emotions. I'm certainly glad to be free of the pain of the hail, but the woods really did afford me a tiny sense of privacy and safety. Out here, everything is just… open. At the moment, I don't see any other tributes around, though. Probably some of them are sticking it out in the trees. I'll try to check out this beachy area, but I can't forget that I have no weapon, and I'll be at the mercy of anyone who does. So, the second I see another tribute, I'll run back for the woods, even if it does mean getting bruised by hailstones.

The sand muffles my footsteps as I walk forward. After a little while, I see a body of water in the distance. I haven't noticed any streams or anything yet, so it's possible this is the only source of hydration in the arena. Still, something about it doesn't feel trustworthy. My skepticism is confirmed when I arrive at the shore of what I realize is a small lake, scoop up some of the water, and look at it. Cloudy. Definitely not suitable for drinking in this state.

Time to move on.

I can see the hail is still coming down in the forested area, but this beachy part extends both in front and behind me. Let me think about this. So the Cornucopia is in a plain in the center of the arena, surrounding that is a ring of trees, and I'm outside of that; perhaps in another ring of sand with bodies of water? Maybe that's the arena layout for this year, a series of rings with different terrains. They've done weirder things.

I stop to pick up a rock from the sand. Not great in terms of a weapon, but better than nothing. I've decided I'll try to walk around the forest area to see if the whole place really is one big beach. What are other tributes doing right now? Probably looking for water. Typically, that's the first step people try to take upon entering the arena. Every so often, the Gamemakers design an arena that's abundant with potable liquid, but then there's always some other danger employed as a replacement. One year, there was a large number of streams surrounding the Cornucopia, but it soon became apparent that the tributes would have to compete for water with a variety of wild beasts.

That reminds me… I haven't seen any animals at all so far. Not even a single bird in the wooded area. Is that a good sign? It means hunting won't be possible for the time being; we'll have to get all our nourishment from what's growing in the forest. I don't recall having seen any fruit trees while I was in there, and that could indicate one of several things. Obviously, it's possible I just missed them. Another, more unnerving option is that the forest isn't going to offer any food either. But then what? I suddenly feel very hungry and allow myself a piece of the beef jerky that was in my backpack.

That's when I hear it. A scream – a boy's one, coming from somewhere ahead of me. I take half a second to register that the voice doesn't sound like March's, and then I'm on my feet, running away from the dying tribute and whoever killed him. My legs protest, but my need to survive overrides their complaints as I zoom back into the woods. I don't know if the hail has ceased. I certainly don't know where I'm going. But after a while, my legs just… stop, and I find myself lying on the forest floor, exhausted, more tired than I've ever been. No hail pelting me anymore, though, thankfully.

I push myself up so my back is against a tree. Now I have to be silent. I must make it impossible for the one who killed that boy to hear me and locate me. The sky is beginning to darken now, but this time, it isn't gathering clouds. Nightfall is on its way. I allow myself the rest of the beef jerky for dinner along with several blessed swallows of water. My legs are unwilling to move any further, but I have to at least try to camouflage myself. I manage to grab some leaves from the ground beside me and scatter them over myself. Maybe that will do something… as long as it stays dark and no one approaches within 20 feet of me. Ha.

There's another sound, but this time, it's not someone being attacked. The national anthem plays, announcing the report of deaths for today. I need to pay attention to this, both so I can have an idea of how many other tributes I'm going to have to contend with, and also to see if March survived.

First comes the boy from 3, then the boy from 4. OK – one Career down. I guess that's a good omen. The girl from 5; the boy from 6; the boy from 8; the girl from 10; the girl from 12. End of show. I'm relieved to see that March is alive. And hey, Emmer and Annona are, too, the tributes from 9 that I was thinking of allying with. Maybe there's still a chance of that happening. The Capitol seal appears in the sky, a shorter excerpt from the anthem plays, and that's it. Everything is dark again, and all I can hear are crickets.

I want desperately to sleep. Part of my mind screams, _It's not safe!_ And of course I know it isn't. It's never safe in the arena. But better to rest here, where I'm covered in leaves and under the trees, then to push myself to keep going and eventually pass out somewhere random, right? My eyes are closing on their own… I might as well let them. If I die tonight, at least it'll be in my sleep. And what would I want my last thoughts to be? My parents. My father's great laugh and my mother's warm hugs, things that are very far away but so, so wonderful.


	12. Chapter 12

I awaken in the exact same position in which I fell asleep. So, I survived the night. The first sensation I feel is relief, although it's quick to evaporate; after all, I'm still in the Games. I could be killed at any moment. And the other thing I'm experiencing is _hunger_. Yesterday, I had my two breakfasts that filled me right up, and then I had the dried meat to keep me going for the rest of the day. But now, I have nothing to eat… not to mention that my canteen is starting to run low.

I hoist myself up. My task for today is to find food and water. Once I collect some, I can work on trying to meet up with March. I can't help but feel a wave of frustration. Why didn't we try to make some sort of plan? Obviously, without knowing what the arena was going to look like beforehand, it would have been difficult to decide on a meeting point or something of that nature, but maybe we could've at least agreed to run in the same direction. But then we were on opposite sides of the Cornucopia, so it probably wouldn't have worked out anyway.

_Look, Seeder,_ I think to myself. _You can't spend every second worrying about March._ And it's true. I don't think there's any way around putting my survival first. So that's what I'll do for now.

I look upward and glance from tree to tree. All of them just have colorful leaves growing on them – no fruit. Something like an apple would be ideal now because it would quiet both my hunger and thirst. But hell, what did I expect? Some kind of orchard in the arena? Still, there's a part of me that has hope in these plants. Perhaps there's just a few of them that bear fruit amongst all the decoys. Where would they be? I try to put myself in Faustine Sweet's shoes. What would entertain audiences? Typically, the goal is to bring tributes together so they can watch us battle it out, but that doesn't give me a hint as to where the fruit trees might be planted. It seems my only option is to just walk around and search. This probably isn't a particularly safe idea… after all, I'm certain that most of the other tributes are hiding out within the wooded area, too, and I'm still unarmed. But all things considered, I'd rather die from a knife to the throat than dehydration. Not even a day and a half in the arena and I'm already thinking that way.

Off I go. The really difficult part is that I have to basically be aware of what's happening in every single direction around me. I can't just look ahead and walk; an attacker could come from one of my sides or behind me, and on top of that, I need to periodically look up to see if there are any fruit-bearing trees in the area. It's a little dizzying, honestly. The weird thing is that so far I haven't heard a peep. What are the Careers doing now? Maybe they haven't woken up yet. In most of the Games I've watched, they tend to hunt deep in the night, which means going to sleep later and sleeping in later, too. Oh, I'm sure they've got at least one tribute on guard – even the most untrained of alliances knows that sleeping in shifts in a necessity – but they might not be actively on pursuit right now. I can only hope. Of course, the other tributes still pose a danger.

Wait a moment.

What was that?

It wasn't a sound, but something I saw… not a tree, a bush. I slow down and then turn. Yes, there it is. Not something edible; in fact, quite the opposite. Something you should never eat. Nightlock berries. This isn't anything new – the Game Makers do love to tuck a little poison in here and there. I'm just lucky that this year it wasn't hidden. In District 11, a lot of people call nightlock "suicide drops" because, well, that's what they're often used for. I've heard quite a few stories about them. People scheduled for execution who would rather die comfortably in their family's arms instead of in public. Those who are facing the prospects of starving or freezing to death and would prefer an easier way out. Parents whose lives have become meaningless after their only child died in the Hunger Games. The berries kill rapidly and painlessly – it takes about three for a fully-grown man, but for me, probably a single one would do it. I decide to grab a bunch and stash them in one of the backpack's side compartments. Just in case.

Although I can't eat them, maybe it's not a bad thing that the nightlock was here. Maybe they were deliberately placed at this location so that they would be confused with something else? And then I'm on my knees, looking through bushes. Ignore the scrapes, push those leaves away, maybe… yes! There they are. Wild blueberries – not a large quantity, but nonetheless, it's food, a precious rarity in the arena. I treat myself to a handful and find they taste almost exactly like the ones we grow in 11. After I've plucked the bush clean, my stomach feels full. Blueberries aren't really a meal in themselves, so I might be hungry again in a few hours, but I'll be good for a little while, at least.

I've been walking for about another hour when I see something else that catches my eye. Someone has made a campfire. Whoever this belongs to obviously did better at the camouflage course than I did, because I almost didn't notice it at all, but sure enough, that formation of sticks is nothing naturally-occurring. And more importantly, there are food packages here! The white paper-wrapped boxes are direct from the Cornucopia. I look around wildly. Was this left as a trap? I don't hear a thing. I believe this is someone's makeshift base of operations, and whoever it is, he'll probably be back soon. I need to act quickly. I snatch one of the packages and slide it into my backpack. There's a canteen, too, and I grab it as well.

And then I have one other idea.

I sit down and slowly, carefully, unwrap the other food package I left here. Inside are some dried strips of meat like the ones I had. Then I reach into my backpack and pull out a few of the nightlock berries. With a gentle squeeze, their juice drops onto the meat. Then I fold the white paper back to its original arrangement and then bolt out of there.

By the time the adrenaline has subsided and I'm sitting, panting near the edge of the forest and looking out onto the beach, I already start to feel a strong sense of regret. Was that the right choice? When I hear a cannon fire not long after, the answer in my mind is a resounding no. I feel overcome with guilt. How could I do that? Kill another human being? And then I'm sobbing, pressing my face into my hands and crying for forgiveness from whosever death I caused. Hoping it wasn't March. Are there cameras on me now? Are Capitol citizens finding my sorrow entertaining? Or are sponsors already writing me off, uninterested in this girl who can't kill without immediately breaking down?

I take a deep breath. I must accept that what's done is done; I can't start losing my sanity now. I will myself to calm down, to push away the noise, to focus. I wipe my eyes. _Well, let's see if this was worth it._ I open up the white box I stole from the other tribute. Inside, there's a decent pile of dried apricots and a nice hunk of bread. All for me, at the cost of the original owner's life. I will survive for another day because someone else died. That's the way things go in the arena.

I don't do much else the rest of the day. I walk around the forest aimlessly and eventually trail out onto the beach. I feel exhausted and restless at the same time, disgusted with myself for what I have done and enraged at having to be in this place where murder is not only condoned but encouraged. There's no point, though. It doesn't matter how I feel. Nobody cares.

When the nightly announcement begins, I stay standing and look up. Only one person died today. It wasn't March – it was the boy from 12. I remember that night after the tribute parade; he and I said goodbye to each other. It was both the first and last time we ever spoke. I suppose I made sure of that.

I sleep in the forest again that night. I walk through the trees until the anger within me quiets down, and then I find a soft spot on the ground. I don't bother covering my body with leaves. It never really made a difference, did it? Maybe I deserve to be found. No… no, I can't allow myself to think this way. This is the Hunger Games. You kill because you must. My victim would have just as quickly done the same to me. Probably. That doesn't really make it right, of course. All of this has been wrong, from beginning to end. But I'm no Gamemaker. I'm just another one of their toys.

I don't remember falling asleep, but I wake up to the sound of cannon fire. It's rather distant, but as far as I can tell, it's coming from the direction of the Cornucopia. I can hear pained screaming, too; first a girl, then a few other voices join in. I can't really recognize anyone in particular, and I can only imagine as to what might be going on. Another cannon. What's happening? Probably a couple of allies decided to get together to try to steal some of the Careers' belongings and figured they'd rush the Cornucopia, only to get unlucky. The cries continue, and there's a lot of moving around… which is getting steadily getting louder. That means people are coming closer!

The following minutes are… strange. Almost immediately, I several bodies sprinting in the immediate distance. Perhaps the Careers weren't satisfied with their two kills and are hungering for more blood. I leap to my feat and grab my backpack. Yet, in the next second, I'm not being attacked; the people zoom right past me, not acknowledging my presence in any way. What? Then it hits me – they weren't headed toward me. They're trying to get _away_ from something!

I turn in the opposite direction and then, once again, I'm running as fast as I can… but this time, only for a short while. It's quite clear that nobody is pursuing me. Whoever or _whatever_ it was that those other tributes were so afraid of was apparently more interested in them. I catch my breath and try to think through exactly what just happened. How many cannons did I hear? Two. And how many tributes did I see trying to escape? Let me think back. Everything was so quick… all my brain really had time to do was kick in my survival reflexes, not take in any details. But if I had to guess, I'd say it was three. Does all of this mean something?

I wonder… is it worth the risk to try to get a look at the Cornucopia? What I really should be doing now is foraging for more food, but I give in to my curiosity. Given the circular patterns of this arena, it'd be a challenge to figure out which way to head, but since I saw the direction from which the tributes were running, I know I can follow that same way. I take a healthy swig from my canteen – there's not much left in it, but I still have the one I stole yesterday – and then start moving.

I have to do my weird look up and around walking, but I don't hear anything at all and safely arrive at the edge of the forest, where I can still hide within the leaves but have a decent view of the Cornucopia. I slip behind a tree for protection, then peek through the branches.

Nothing. There's no one around. The Cornucopia itself, a strange gold tube-like structure, stands proud and shining. And empty. I can spot some shreds of white paper on the ground; remnants of previously opened food packages. And over there, I see a patch of rust-tinted grass, almost certainly dyed by blood. Someone was wounded or killed here, and recently. So far, this is the closest I've come to seeing actual violence in the arena, and it's disturbing. The scene in front of me starts to feel intensely frightening: the scraps of paper fluttering in the breeze, the blades of grass glistening with unnatural red… it's all sinister. There can be no doubt: something terrible happened here.

I escape back into the forest. Exhausted of energy for running, I can only walk. But it's OK. I just need to get away from the Cornucopia. I don't know what direction I'm going in, but something catches my eye: between two technicolor trees, there's a pine! I doubt many people outside of District 11 (and perhaps also 7) know this, but pine trees are an extremely valuable source of food. I make quick work of stripping off the inner bark, pulling out some nuts, and grabbing several handfuls of needles. It's not a feast, but it's more than enough to keep me alive the rest of the day.

That evening, I decide to make my camp nearby the pine. I've struck gold, and I'm not ready to leave it behind yet. Then the familiar sound of the national anthem begins. Who died today? First the face of the District 1 girl appears, then it's the boy from 2. That's all. What…? Two Careers dead in one day? What could have happened? Unfortunately, the report doesn't say how people were killed. But wait – the District 4 boy died in the bloodbath, which means that half the Careers are gone. It's only the boy from 1 and the girls from 2 and 4 left. I allow myself the luxury of a little optimism. If I can get my hands on a weapon, maybe I have a chance! Feeling a bit of hope, I fall asleep comfortably on the ground.

But when I am awoken hours later, it is to the pain of a knife entering my leg.


	13. Chapter 13

I don't know what's happening, but somehow, some fierce, hidden part of me kicks in. My leg aches and I can feel blood running down to my ankle, but I manage to ignore this. My brain focuses on thing only: self-preservation.

I roll over just as the blade plunges into the ground besides my neck. I whirl to see the attacker, and for one short second, we make eye contact, some kind of message transmitting between us. _What are you doing? Trying to save myself. Well, me too._ But I think faster than he does. Leaping at him won't work, because he could just stab me, so instead I use my good leg and deliver a strong, hard, kick to his head. The boy falls to the ground, startled, dropping his weapon, which I immediately snatch up. I climb onto the boy's semi-conscious body, estimate where his heart is, and thrust it downward. I pull it back out right away, blood pouring from the boy's chest as his life rapidly comes to its end.

I don't hang around to watch him die. I clean the knife on his pants, then grab my backpack and run. There's not really a need to get away, but I have to work off the adrenaline. I must calm down. Hearing the cannon fire helps, too. My second kill. In this instance, it was in self-defense, so I guess that makes it a little better…? But that's it. I'm a killer now, a murderer. This time I don't cry. It won't bring him back, and it won't change anything. His family will still despise me; perhaps my own family is now disgusted with me as well. I'm probably going to die myself soon enough, anyway, and then it won't even matter.

I sit staring into space, sweat running down my forehead, until my eyes close on their own. As I drift into sleep, I find I'm thinking of nothing at all.

The next time I awake, I find that the temperature outside has gone from pleasant and breezy to a dry heat. This is, obviously, a problem: my water supply was already limited, and this will dwindle it even faster. I must find another source of water, or at least some fruit with juice. But as I'm coming back into alertness, I feel a pierce of pain. Of course – how could I forget my injured leg? The fact that I _ran on it_ last night was no help. It isn't bleeding now, but the wound is alarming to look at. At this point, I'll just have to hope it doesn't get infected, then wait to see what happens.

Up we go, girl.

Some experimental attempts at walking lead me to discover that putting weight on the limb is the biggest issue. When I do that, the pain becomes unbearable; otherwise, it's merely horrible. Even with one hand on my newly-acquired knife, I'll be easy pickings in this state.

How many of us are left at this point? It's hard to think through the numbers with my brain preoccupied on my leg, but I try. Seven died the first day. Just one on the second, the boy from 12… thanks to me. Those two Careers after that. And then the boy who attacked me that I got the best of. That's 11 altogether, nearly half of us gone. But I'm still here, alive, at least for a little bit longer. Anyone who wanted to kill me right now probably could do so with ease. The chance of me running into somebody else is lowered, at least, and half the Careers are gone, but both these facts fail to offer me much comfort.

Since it's fairly likely I'm going to die today, how should I spend my last hours alive? I have the nearly-full canteen I took from the District 12 tribute. Now I'm cursing myself for not seeing if my assailant from last night had anything on him, although I don't think I recall seeing him carrying anything besides that knife. No food, no water, no items for shelter – just a weapon. He planned to kill me and then… what? Just survive somehow. That'll be my task for the near future, too, although I don't believe I'll do a very good job.

I might as well try to see if there's anything beyond the beachy area. Moving at this slow pace, whatever coverage the forest zone can offer me is not going to make much of a difference. _Off we go, Seeder._ The pain is still intense, but the gash has yet to turn an odd color or swell, the typical hallmarks of an infection – something far worse than a simple wound. I have my backpack with some of my reserves from the pine tree and my precious canteen. I don't think its contents will last more than a day… maybe two, if I really push myself, which is going to be extremely difficult in the hotter climate and with this handicap. I'll just have to try.

And then I'm on the move, limping my way through the woods. I'm not bothering to be on the lookout for attackers at this point. There's definitely no way I could outrun them, so I'd have to rely on getting the best of them with my knife, which itself would be highly unlikely. Instead, my only concern is with checking the nearby trees for food. After dragging myself through an untold number of the ridiculous neon trees the Gamemakers have primarily populated this place with, I come across a peach tree. Saved. While actually climbing it is impossible for me with only one usable leg, I grab all that I can from the lower branches and stash them in my backpack. Obviously, this makes it considerably heavier, but I'm moving so slow as it is that I don't really care.

Despite my injury and the fact that my chances for survival have undoubtedly plummeted because of it, the peaches slightly motivate me. This was supposed to be my symbol, right? And here it is again, helping me once more. Yes, all those little maneuvers from the very beginning – the styling, the interview antics, the constructed personas – everything was constructed with the end purpose of keeping me alive in the arena. The peach has done double duty. Whether or not it truly did make me any more appealing to sponsors is difficult to say; I've been doing surprisingly well up till recently, actually, and haven't needed much in the way of gifts. But now… well, forget it. I need to rely on myself, not outside help that may never come.

I'm tired, in pain, and carrying a heavy backpack, but I'm mobile. I think I can hear movement to my left as I'm exiting the forest, but I ignore it, and fortunately, it doesn't get any louder. Probably another tribute looking for food, not hunting for victims. This Game feels like it's been less eventful than the ones I've watched in the past, with the deaths occurring less frequently. This isn't really desirable, because it means the Gamemakers will be more inclined to throw in various curveballs that will have the effect of bringing all the tributes to the same place and inciting some bloodshed. The hail was only the smallest taste of what they're capable of doing. Maybe they had a hand in what happened at the Cornucopia yesterday, too; I'm still confused about that.

I pass through the trees and out back into the sand. I take a break to remove the sweater, use one of the sleeves to wipe the sweat off my face, and tie it around my waist. I have a sip of canteen water, the minimum I think I need, and then walk on. I can see I'm at a different area of the desert than I was when I ran out to escape the hail, because there's no lake nearby.

So I begin my journey across the sand. With my sweater off, the temperature isn't too bad – the heat seems to be better for my injury, in fact. I stop to eat a peach and drink some water. While I'm still going to be totally vulnerable should someone choose to attack me now, as long as I'm left alone, I'll be able to hang in here a little while longer.

The outer ring past the desert is a grassy plain. This turns out to be where the arena's fauna are situated, though there isn't much of it. I immediately see a couple of rabbits hopping by, but it's at least 20 minutes before I come across a small group of chipmunks, and nearly an hour passes before I spy a red fox in the distance. I suppose it makes sense; the Gamemakers didn't want to load the place up with prime specimens for hunting, naturally. I won't be engaging in that myself for the time being. Yes, I've gotten pretty good with the throwing knife, but these animals are too small and too fast, especially with my injury. It's nice to know I have the option to give it a try, though, if it comes to that.

In contrast to the forested area's collection of artificial palette of trees, the only plant here is lots and lots of ordinary green grass, clearly placed here to sustain the resident animals. OK, so they have plenty of food. But what about to drink? That's it! Since the water in the beach zone is unpotable, _this_ must be where we're supposed to go. What do I do now? Just follow the animals? I figure I'll give this a go, but I soon see this won't work with my leg the way it is. The bunnies move out of sight within minutes of me seeing them, and I'm in no position to pursue them. I trail behind in what I think is the correct direction for a little while, but all I find is more and more grass. Time to turn back.

The return trip to the forest takes substantially longer than the one there did. My leg seems to be worse off than I initially thought; I can still limp my way along, but the ache is more severe than this morning. I need to rest badly. As I slip back into the woods, I hear distant yelling, but it quiets down and no cannon sounds. Strange. I lower myself onto the ground by a wide-trunked magenta tree, sticking my legs straight out, as this is the position that hurts the least. It's hard to know what time it is, but I would guess mid-afternoon, so I call the two peaches I eat next my lunch. I still have six in my bag, so perhaps I should work out some kind of rationing system.

I glance down at my leg. Even with no visible signs of infection, it's ghastly. From a recovery standpoint, it was a terribly unwise decision to use this leg today. In the Games, though, you don't just sit back and wait for wounds to heal. You keep going until you're completely unable to do so. And then you die. Could I make an exception for today, though? I have some food and some water, so maybe it will be all right if I just sit here. I've put my leg through enough as it is for one day. I can push myself to move again tomorrow. Taking another trip to the grassland appeals to me, as I'm now fairly confident that it contains the only sources of drinkable water in this arena.

As I untie my sweater to wipe another layer of perspiration off my face, I start to relax and let my mind wander. Golden, Ivy, and Chaff must be watching now from that headquarters building that Atia talked about. I imagine about what the place looks like. It's got to be super luxurious like all the Capitol accommodations I've experienced, with huge quarters for every district's team filled with leather couches and décor made of pure gold. Oh, and I'll bet there's an endless supply of food. They might be being served a big, extravagant lunch right now, or maybe it's more like the way things were arranged for the Gamemakers during our day of private performances, where they had a nonstop buffet at their disposal. When I realize this line of thinking is doing nothing to help me and only igniting my appetite, I quickly decide to focus on something else.

This becomes easy when my attention is pulled toward the noise of approaching footsteps. They're slow, heavy, deliberate – not the sound of somebody running away from something. Probably it's another tribute looking for food among the trees. Maybe if I can stay perfectly still, this person will divert their path and leave me alone.

But that doesn't happen.

Instead, the noise gets louder and louder. This other tribute is coming closer. I feel myself sliding back against the tree, hanging onto it for support. There's a chance, however tiny, that it's March… yes, perhaps it's March, having found me against all odds. Or, if it's Emmer or Annona, maybe they won't kill me right away.

However, when the tribute stops in front of me, I can see it isn't any of the people I was hoping it might be. Instead, it's the boy from District 1. And he's aiming a crossbow at me.


	14. Chapter 14

I squeeze my eyes shut. So here's where it's going to end, then. I tried my best. I wish a silent goodbye to my friends, my parents. My mind returns to the last time I saw them on Reaping Day in that cold room in the Justice Building. Perhaps there really is an afterlife where we're reunited with everyone we once loved, so I suppose that I might meet them again. But in the near future, I'll just be another number to add to the list of dead tributes. Another face that will be flashed in the sky momentarily tonight – ironically, alongside that of the boy I killed. I wait for the pain to start.

But it doesn't.

I cautiously open my eyes. What's happened? The District 1 boy is still there, still holding the crossbow, but he's just staring at me, his eyes narrowed as though he's searching for something.

"What happened to your leg?" he says.

I'm so taken aback by this that all I can say is, "Huh?"

The boy frowns, then looks at the weapon he still has aimed at me. He lowers it to his side, and in a quieter voice, he asks again, "What happened to your leg?"

I swallow. What's going on? Why isn't he killing me? Maybe he wants to draw out the process and torture me, something I've seen happen before in past Games. All of us in District 11 invariably turn away from watching this repulsive content, but it's the exact same stuff that certain segments of the Capitol audience especially relish. If this boy wants to do that, he's probably planning to start with where I'm already wounded… but for some reason, I don't think that's where this particular tribute going. He doesn't look bloodthirsty. So I decide to answer. "Um, another tribute attacked me last night," I reply, stuttering.

"Oh," the boy says. He sits down on the ground next to me, placing his crossbow beside him and removing his backpack, which he then opens. Instead of instruments of torture, out comes a glass bottle and a thin roll of elastic bandage. "What happened to him?" the boy asks as he tears off a section.

I don't understand this. He's going to dress my wound? "I, uh… I killed him," I admit.

The slightest hint of a smirk shows on the boy's mouth. "Good," he tells me. "So, this is alcohol, and it might hurt a little when I apply it, but it's going to clean and disinfect your injury here."

"I… I don't get it," I blurt out as he pours some of the liquid from the bottle onto my leg. "Why are you helping me?"

The boy starts wrapping the bandage around my leg, then pauses and looks at me carefully. "You're from District 11, right?"

I nod.

"So you know about plants and stuff?" He looks me up and down.

I nod again.

The boy thinks for a minute, then asks, "What's your name?"

"Seeder," I answer. "What's yours?"

"Goal," he says as he finishes fastening the bandage, then stands up. "OK, Seeder. I'll get to the point: I'm starving. I ate barely anything yesterday, and not at all today. And it seems like you have some idea of how to find food in here. So how about a partnership? If you can be in charge of getting food, I can keep us safe."

This is… unusual, to say the least. Alliances between Careers and non-Careers aren't totally unheard of, but they're rare, and I never imagined I'd be a participant in one. But why not? Right now, Chaff must be pounding on the screen as he's watching these events unfold, raging at me for considering this union. "Didn't I tell her not to trust the other tributes?!" he's probably yelling at Ivy. Well, Chaff, you're not here to help me right now. This person is.

I turn to Goal and smile. "Agreed," I say. "If you're hungry, take a look in my backpack." On some level, this is a risk, but the plain truth is that Goal could have killed me the second he met me if he'd wanted to. And he used some of his own limited provisions to help me, so why shouldn't I return the favor? I release the vise-like grip I've had on my bag and hold it out.

"Thank you," Goal says breathily, as if relieved. Was he not expecting me to say yes? More likely he's just comforted at the knowledge of eating soon. He takes the backpack from me and pulls out one of the peaches, but instead of immediately taking a huge bite (which is what I would've done), Goal just rolls it around in his hands and smells it. He glances at me, befuddled. "What is this?"

I can see he isn't joking. "It's a peach," I answer, then realizing this alone isn't a helpful explanation, I add, "it's fruit."

"We don't get much fruit in 1," Goal says. He looks back and forth from me to the peach, perhaps still trying to decide if I'm trustworthy. Evidently he's decided I am and starts to nibble. A huge grin then spreads across his face. "Oh, this is good!" Goal exclaims. I watch as my new teammate devours one, two, then three peaches. Rationing will have to come later.

When Goal is finished, he wipes his hand and then cleans it on his sweater. "OK, I've given you something and you've given me something. I think that cements the deal, don't you?" He offers his other, non-sticky palm to me.

I shake his hand. "Allies?"

He nods. "Allies." We sit there, just kind of smiling at each other for a minute or two, and then Goal's gaze diverts to something behind me. He appears surprised, then happy again. "Hey," he says. "Looks like somebody approves of us."

I turn to see what he's staring at, and my eyes instantly lock on it. A plastic box attached to a silver parachute. A sponsorship! Goal doesn't move to collect it, so I do the honors. Inside the little container is a stack of white squares. This definitely isn't food or a weapon… what else might it be? I hand the box to my ally to let him examine it.

"These are bandages, but not like any kind I've seen," he tells me. "Let's try it out." With that, Goal gently undoes the elastic he just applied to my leg, then rips open one of the packets to reveal a beige-colored patch. He peels off the backing, then sticks the new bandage right over my wound. Instantly, the material seals to my skin, and within a few seconds, the pain is almost completely gone.

"Wow," I say.

"That's Capitol medicine for you," Goal says. Then he passes the box back to me. "I think you'd better hold on to these. It was your sponsorship, you know."

"Thank you," I reply, taking it and sliding it in my backpack. Is he right, though? Was that sponsorship truly meant for me? Sure, it benefited me more immediately, but Goal was the one who already had medical supplies. It's extremely unlikely that Chaff and Ivy somehow collaborated with the District 1 mentors on this (assuming that's even allowed according to the rules), so it's only rational to assume that the gift came from one tribute's party only.

"I know what you're thinking," Goal says, interrupting my deliberations. "You're wondering why I said the sponsorship was for you." His expression darkens. "Let's just say I don't think I'm too popular with my mentors right now."

I frown. "What? Why not?"

Goal leans against a tree. "There's the fact that I didn't volunteer for this. That's where it started. I never wanted to be a tribute, ever. I studied first aid in school, but not to train for the Games. I just wanted to help people, ya know? I thought I'd be a doctor or something." He sighs. "Anyway. Crystalline volunteered and I was reaped, so my mentors preferred her from the start, and that was that. One of the first things they said to me was, 'Clearly, you're not cut out for this.' Can you believe that? The sad part is that they were right." Goal shakes his head. "Yet here I am alive, and Crystalline's dead. The opposite of what they wanted, I'm sure."

Yes, I recall this. The District 1 girl – who is named Crystalline, evidently – died the other day, along with the boy from 2. I didn't know what happened then; now could be my chance to find out. "How did she die?" I ask gently. I suppose I'm rather tactless saying this, but I hope it might eventually help Goal feel better if we talk about it.

"On the third day, our group – the tributes from 2, 4, and the two of us – was attacked. Not by other tributes, but by these… animals. I dunno, they were like some kind of awful cross between bears, pigs, and horses. We managed to get the better of them at first, but more and more just kept coming. They killed the boy from 2 first, then Crystalline." Goal sighs again. "The rest of us, me and the girls from 2 and 4, we ran away into the forest here and eventually got separated, which is how I met you." He brushes some hair out of his eyes. "I expect that my mentors are disappointed that it's me who lived and not her. And I'm sure they're angry that I didn't save her."

That explains what happened at the Cornucopia – the screams and the blood I saw later. Naturally, I remember the District 1 girl, who was none too nice to me during training. And yet here is Goal, her district partner, but so unlike her. "I'm glad you're alive," I tell him honestly.

Goal's face briefly lights up, then softens back to his contemplative expression. "Thanks, Seeder," he says. "It's nice to hear somebody say that." He gives a small smile. "So, tell me about 11."

I'm caught off-guard. "What?"

"Tell me about District 11," Goal says. "I'd love to know what it's like there. Is it pretty?"

Now that I think about it, it makes perfect sense that Goal is asking me this. And I quickly realize that I'm just as eager to know about his hometown, too. While I know what every other district produces, 9 is the only one I've ever really been able to guess about in terms of what the lifestyle might be, since I assume grain farming can't be that different from growing fruits and vegetables. But 1 is mysterious. I have no idea what manufacturing luxury goods might entail, and on top of that, District 1 is believed to be one of the wealthiest regions in Panem. I'll try to tell Goal everything I'd want to know.

"Well," I start. "Yeah, it's definitely pretty." I close my eyes and call up my favorite images of where I'm from so I can narrate them to Goal. "District 11 is big, but a lot of that land is for the crops, of course. There's the fields of bushes and then the orchards with trees. See, the whole place is divided up into neighborhoods based on what kind of agriculture you deal with. For me, that's tree fruit. My friends and I…" my voice catches as I think of Carissa and Clover and I suppress the desire to cry. "My friends and I, sometimes we used to wake up early and watch the sun rise through the leaves. But to tell you the truth, there's a lot about District 11 that isn't pretty at all. My family, we're doing all right, but… there's a lot of hunger. You know, sometimes at school, I see kids who clearly haven't had a meal in a while, and…" Now I feel like I'm going to cry again, but this time for a different reason.

I glance at Goal. He's watching me earnestly, resting his chin on his fist. "I don't understand," he says. "You grow all that food there but people are going hungry?"

"The crops aren't for us," I explain. "Almost everything is for the Capitol. There's a certain amount that's measured out to keep in 11, but all the choicest stuff is sent away."

"They don't let you keep enough to feed your own citizens?"

I'm struck with a sudden pang of anxiety. Could I get in trouble for discussing this on live television that the entire country can see? Oh, whatever. The camera people won't include this in the broadcast if they don't want people to hear it. They can always cut away to something they're fine with everybody observing. "Sort of," I tell Goal. "I think that hypothetically there's enough food in District 11 to feed us, but plenty of people can't afford to buy as much as they need."

Goal nods slowly. "And if you were to take from the crops, you'd be punished,"

"Shot, more likely," I say. Time to change the topic. "Anyway, we all live in small houses. No apartments like in the Capitol. Actually, the only real tall buildings we have are the processing plants." I give Goal the details about how the fruits and vegetables are sorted and packed. "Most people work either in planting, maintaining, or picking," I say. "Then other people work in the plants. And there's a small group of those who run the shops and do specialized things, like healers and builders and whatnot."

"What are the Peacekeepers like there?"

Ugh. Frankly, I'd rather discuss any other subject. "They're… ah… you know. Sometimes I feel like they don't even see us as human."

Goal contemplates this for a while, then places a hand on his forehead. "What a mess," he murmurs. "What a mess this place is."

"Will you tell me a little about District 1, too?" I ask.

"All right," he agrees. "Pretty much everyone has a workshop job. Most of the kids, though, we just go to school. When you turn 10, you have the option to stay in regular school or go to one of the training academies for the Games. I don't know if it's true, but I've heard that supposedly, each year the teachers from those academies gather together and nominate a male and female tribute, who are then told to volunteer. So either that's only a rumor, or else the boy they picked decided not to follow through, which explains why I'm here." He takes a sharp inhale. "Right. So. We get orders from the Capitol about what they want the workers to make, and then they do it. Sometimes it's simpler things, other times it be really intricate stuff. I could usually tell by my parents' mood when they came home every day."

That's interesting: it's uncommon for children to work in District 1, whereas it's the opposite in 11. So they really are wealthier, then. But Goal didn't know what a peach was… "You said you don't get much fruit?" I ask.

"No," he answers. "I don't think anyone is starving, but we don't have food like that. There's a lot of rice; more than anything else, actually. We do have vegetables, too… mostly potatoes and beets, sometimes carrots. The only time when we get fruit is when the Capitol has leftovers, but then that's only overripe apples and oranges. Occasionally there's meat for sale, but that's expensive."

Meat isn't exceedingly rare in District 11, although I'm not sure it's the kind Goal is used to eating. Hunting is permitted, seeing as from the Capitol perspective, the animals are nothing more than a nuisance that's trying to eat their food. The meat isn't for sale every day, since a lot of the hunters need it to feed themselves, but every so often there's a rabbit or squirrel available.

After we give each other the lowdown about our respective districts, Goal and I go over what supplies we've got. He has a bottle of alcohol, the elastic bandage, a packet of wheat crackers, and a half-empty flask of water. I have the sponsorship patches, a few more peaches, and my canteen. "Oh, and I also have this other canteen," I tell him as I pull out the brown bottle I originally found in the backpack. "It doesn't have water in it, though, just some weird-smelling fluid."

Goal takes the brown canteen, uncaps it, and gives it a sniff. His eyes widen. "Seeder, this is iodine!"

I feel like an idiot for not knowing what that means, but clearly, it's important. "So it's safe to drink, then?"

Goal shakes his head. "It's not for drinking. It's to purify water. We'll be able to treat a pretty good amount with this."

Of course! I should have guessed. "There's some cloudy water in the lakes in the beach area," I tell him. "And I also saw some grassland beyond that with animals, so after we use up the iodine, maybe we can follow them and see if there's fresh water there."

"Perfect," Goal says. "I'm really lucky to have met you."

And here I was thinking it was I who was the real benefactor in our alliance. I reach over to him, and mimicking Golden's goodbye to March and me, I give Goal's shoulder a squeeze. This gesture says everything I want to tell Goal. I'm here for you. Hang in there. We'll be all right.


	15. Chapter 15

When Goal offers to take the first watch that night, I don't argue. I'm not feeling all that tired, and my leg barely hurts anymore, but being able to sleep with a sense of safety is a rare gift in the arena, and it's not one I'm going to pass up. We'll have work to do tomorrow, too: after all, the bargain was that I find us food while Goal protects us. We can try out purifying some water with my iodine, too. I should also show him the field area. If he's able to kill people, well… hunting animals is probably even easier. I'll have to ask.

It's still nighttime when I awaken. But it's not Goal shaking me and telling me it's my turn to be on guard. No, it's the sound of him crying. I bolt up. Has he been hurt? Is there somebody else here? As my eyes adjust to the darkness, it becomes apparent that the answer to both questions is no. Goal is on his own, leaning against a tree and looking toward the moon.

"Hey," I say softly.

Goal turns back toward me and wipes at his face. "Oh," he says. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

I shrug. "Don't worry about me. I wasn't that sleepy." I push myself up into a sitting position. "Let's talk," I say. "It'll help. Then you can take a turn getting some rest."

He looks at me for a second, hesitating, then nods and lowers himself onto the ground across from me. "I just…" he manages to get out. "I'm going to die in here, Seeder. And I really don't want to." He begins sobbing again, hiding his face in his hands.

I do the only thing I can think to. I reach over and wrap my arms around him. For a moment, we are no longer tributes in a deadly place; we are just ordinary, unremarkable kids. That moment doesn't last long, though. It feels slightly strange to be doing this – I don't often even exchange hugs with my friends I've known for years. But everything is different, it seems, within the confines of the arena.

"What went wrong?" Goal whimpers. "Why did it have to come to this?"

It's an unusual question, an I'm unsure how to even begin to answer it. How am I supposed to explain the Hunger Games? What could possibly justify it in anyone's mind? Year after year of hearing the Treaty of Treason hasn't successfully done that. I've never known anything other than the Games, yet I also know that they are profoundly wrong. There is something underneath, at the very basic level of human consciousness, that should tell people that children shouldn't be killing each other, and it shouldn't be entertainment. But apparently the people of the Capitol have been trained to forget that. "We're sane people in an insane world," is what I end up blurting out.

"The thing is," Goal says, sniffling. "You have to stay sane. That's the trick. You've met your victors before – how many of them seem to be all there? There's not really any losing or winning. You either die or you come out alive, that's all. The only people who _win_ the Hunger Games are the Capitol."

I think of Chaff. Sure, he's a little hard-bitten, and he likes a good drink, but that doesn't mean he's deranged. And what about Ivy and her warmth? She's plenty sane… or at least, that's what she shows me. Perhaps Ivy does have some secret – a soundproof room to scream out her painful memories or a stash of pills to erase them. I recall the District 1 victors always appearing totally beautiful and composed, never crazy. But then, Goal is the one who's met them and trained under them. The unkind way they treated him wasn't shocking to me, though. Maybe that's another kind of insanity.

"Do you think that… do you think that if you won the Games, if you got out of here, that you would become like… _them?_" I ask. I don't have to specify who I mean by "them" – the victors who are unhinged in a very public way, having no qualms about what person or camera sees them guzzling alcohol, randomly breaking into tears, or mumbling to themselves. Maybe the worst of all are the victors from District 6, who all have a… hollow look about them. I asked about this once, and my mother said that they use too much morphling. I know it's a medicine of some kind, but not much else. No doubt it's far beyond the price range of anyone in District 11, but then, when you're a victor, you can really buy whatever you want, and for some people, that's unlimited drugs.

Goal looks at me for a long time, as if trying to find the right answer in my face. "No," he says finally. "No, I won't ever become like that. I promise."

"We can keep it together," I assure him. "Our families need us to, our friends. That's who's the most important."

Goal smiles, but his face still looks pained. "Do you think it's really worth it, though? To fight to stay alive? Life isn't really much more than time and space, in the end." Then he looks away from me. "And besides, you're my friend, too, now. For me to win, everyone else in here has to die."

A thought crosses my mind – it's the same dilemma that anyone who ever has been or ever will be in an alliance in the arena has to face. _What if the two of us are the last tributes left?_ This has occurred in a few Games I've watched, but each time, the last two allied tributes were both Careers, who were already expected to care more about winning than each other. The best answer here is probably an indirect one. "There's nothing we can do. We have to play by the rules. Let's just help each other out, OK?" At first I'm surprised by how desperate my voice sounds when it comes out, but then I realize why. If Goal were to lose his grip, fall into hysteria… that would be the beginning of the end for both of us.

Goal's crying has stopped. "That's right," he says, his voice calming. "We're here to help each other." He wipes his nose and then stands back up. "I'm OK now. Thanks, Seeder."

I nod and lie back down, falling asleep rather quickly. When Goal does finally wake me up to take over the watch, it's lighter than I was expecting. "What happened?" I ask, yawning. "How long did you stay up?"

"I just waited until I felt tired," he answers with a grin. "I like being awake at night, anyway." With that, Goal lies down in the spot I'm standing up from, and within a few minutes, he looks to be out cold.

As Goal fades out of wakefulness and I'm coming back into it, a strange feeling overcomes me. I'm in a weird in-between place: Goal isn't really with me, but I'm not really alone, either, and I'm not as vulnerable as I was at first, but I'm not really safe, either. But with no one to talk to, I can't help but be a bit lonely, too. I decide I'll keep my mind occupied by trying to see everything I can about my surroundings.

First: I'm sitting on grass. It's normal, the same stuff I've seen at home, nothing remarkable about it. The trees around here are mostly the fake, brightly-colored ones, though. It's not difficult to guess what the idea was. In the beginning, we tributes would think that the forested area would be a great place for food and safety, only to realize that few of the trees had fruit and camouflage was barely possible within the neon. The audiences must have had a good time taking in all that disappointment and horror. Watching us break down psychologically must be just as entertaining as seeing us being maimed. Enough of that. What else do I see? The sky is black and starry, just like it would be at home. It's impossible to know if it truly is night, given that the apparent time of day – along with everything else in the arena – can be manipulated. The Gamemakers can have it be pitch black for far longer than natural to create a state of extreme confusion, or else they can make things intensely bright, ensuring all the tributes are starved for sleep. There are just so many ways to torture us. Why do I keep thinking about that? Got to get my mind back to observing activity. The ring of sandy beach isn't too far off; I can just make it out.

Most likely, Goal and I will be heading there tomorrow to try out my iodine. Goal said he was lucky to meet me, but the opposite is also completely true. How close was I to just tossing the stuff away, not knowing how incredibly valuable it would be? And the sponsorship we got… well, I say _we_, but it was technically just intended for one of us. I'm still confused by that. I believe sponsors choose the particular tribute they want to support, but mentors decide when to actually send the gifts in. Goal was right. Someone must have indeed approved of our alliance. The sponsors probably just like the variety that alliances add to the Games. And plus, Goal and I met just after I'd been in a pretty horrible fight, so maybe they didn't want to see me killed just yet. Providing violence isn't the only way to create entertainment value, after all. The union between Goal and me has added something atypical and unexpected to the story. The only thing is the item that was chosen. It really only benefited me. I guess Goal didn't need anything else after I fed him, but a sponsor could have decided to send him some additional food or water, which are needed at just about any point in the Games. So… the sponsorship was for me, then? Yes. It must have been Ivy who arranged it, who approved of my joining this boy from another district and sharing my supplies with him. It's Ivy, more than anyone else, who would understand and encourage compassion, who would want to see Goal and my alliance succeed. But what about the choice of gift itself? Goal had already dressed my wound; did I truly need something more? Maybe… maybe the intention was to give me something I could continue to use if he dies. Is that what the sponsorship was, then? A reminder to me that I should remember to look out for myself? If that's the case, it must have been organized by Chaff. He would think that way.

I still haven't come to a decision about which of my mentors oversaw this sponsorship when Goal is shaking himself awake. "Hey," he says. "You look like you've been doing some thinking."

"Yeah," I reply. "Just planning." I figure this is a better answer than telling him that I've been debating whether or not my mentors want me to trust him or not.

"We should check out that water in the beach zone you were talking about," he says. "And we should try to find some more food today." He pauses. "If that sounds good to you, I mean."

"Yeah, definitely."

We head off, with me leading the way and Goal following, his crossbow at the ready. Other than our own footsteps, there's a startling lack of noise. How many tributes are gone now? 11, I think – nearly half of us. That doesn't necessarily mean the Games themselves are half over, of course. Depending on what the Gamemakers do, the event can end up dragging on for weeks with just a few tributes if the audience particularly likes them. It does tend to make the Games somewhat easier for the participants, though, when there are fewer of them. Of us. Naturally, the Gamemakers don't want this, and if there hasn't been adequate bloodshed in a while, that's when you can start expecting… interventions. If you can't remain interesting on your own, the Gamemakers will "help" you. As far as I know, the beasts that attacked the Careers' camp have been the worst so far, but that's nothing compared to what they're capable of.

Goal looks all around as we enter the beachy area. "I don't like it here," he murmurs. "No cover."

"We don't need to stay long," I tell him. "Let's just collect some water." Seeing as Goal was the one who knew what the iodine was, I hand it over to him. I watch as he takes out his own flask, takes a long drink from it, then passes it to me.

"Go ahead and finish it," he says. "I'm going to fill it up from here." I gratefully drink down the rest and then hand the flask back to Goal. He looks at the cloudy water in the lake for a few moments, then dunks the flask into it. Next, he unscrews the iodine and carefully lets exactly ten drops fall into the water. "I used a bit extra, to be careful. We should leave it for around an hour before we drink it. Shall we fill yours, too?"

I nod, pass him my now-empty canteen, and Goal does the same process. We now have a full flask, a full canteen, and plenty of iodine left to use on this huge lake. Knowing I won't have to worry about water in the arena is a sizable weight off my shoulders.

"What did you say was beyond here?" Goal asks. "Some kind of grassy place?"

"Yeah. I saw a few animals, so maybe we could try hunting."

Goal nods, and we hoist ourselves back up and continue walking. "I should warn you that I don't have any experience with it." He glances at his crossbow momentarily. "This is probably the right tool for it, though."

"I have a knife," I volunteer. "For… skinning."

"Right," Goal says.

It's quite clear that between the two of us, our knowledge of hunting practice is pretty much at the beginner's level. I think back to my days in the Training Center. There was a skill station about traps and snares, where I didn't stop, although March did. I wish he were here. Obviously, I'm worried about his safety, but there's also the fact that March really would be a valuable teammate. He knows things that Goal and I don't; certainly, we'd be more effective at gathering food with him here. We'll meet up with him eventually, though. I'm sure of it.

After we arrive at the grassland, things proceed the way they did the first time I came here. It takes a long time before we see any animals, and the first time Goal tries shoot a squirrel, it's an utter failure. He asks me to give it a go the second time, but I'm even worse. It would seem that my ability with throwing knives does not quite translate to the use of a crossbow. The third attempt turns out to be the charm, and Goal takes down a rabbit.

I do my best to handle the skinning and discover it is probably the most disgusting thing I have ever done in my life. I feel close to vomiting at several points, but I don't allow Goal to take over. I have to get used to this; it probably won't be the last time I do it in the arena. When I've finished, I drop the skin on the ground.

"This should be ready," Goal says quietly, opening the flask and letting some water run over my hands to rinse of all the blood.

We work together to try to figure out how to cook the animal. Making a fire is the obvious first step. Then Goal finds a large branch to stick through it. We take turns holding it over the flames, but unlike with switching the guard at night, we barely speak throughout this, until I tell him I think it's done. It could just be my hunger, but the meat has actually started to smell rather good. And as we start to eat it, the mood improves again.

"This isn't bad," Goal says.

I can't say it tastes like anything I've ever eaten before, but Goal is right. I can't help but feel a tinge of pride in knowing that the two of us prepared this ourselves. If either of us had been better trained, the whole thing probably would've taken significantly less time, but so what? We triumphed in the end. If we can keep this up, we will prove to be a very formidable team indeed.


	16. Chapter 16

After we finish eating, Goal and I sit by the fire. "If it doesn't die out on its own, we'll just put it out before it gets dark," he says.

"Okay," I reply.

What we're in engaged in now – basically, sitting around and doing nothing – is generally a bad idea in the arena. You always have to think about how what you're doing is going to look to an audience. But I can't help it. I need this session of nothingness badly. Sure, I've slept, but there's another kind of fatigue that comes over you in the Games, that exhaustion of constant anxiety. Just resting here with Goal is almost like hanging out with an old friend; it resembles real life. Aside from obviously wanting to survive, the second thing you want in the arena is to somehow forget you're there, and it's so nice to be able to do that, even if just for a moment.

After a pleasant period of silence, Goal says, "Things have been uneventful the last couple of days, haven't they?"

Great minds think alike. "I was just thinking that."

Goal lowers his voice. "It kind of makes me nervous. When nobody has died in a while, don't the Gamemakers like to… do something about it?"

"Look, let's not think about it. It's not worth it to scare ourselves," I suggest. Frankly, it would be a pretty easy subject to talk about. Imagining the horrors that the Gamemakers could unleash on us and reviewing the ones they've gone for in years past have certainly been occupying my mind a lot lately. But I don't want to discuss my fears with Goal. If we're going to talk, couldn't it be about something other than the arena?

Goal keeps glancing upward. Maybe he's remembering the hail that fell early on in the Games. The purpose of that was to get tributes out of hiding in the forest, but now Goal and I are out in the open. Although… I wonder how many other people in here actually know this grassland exists. I only bothered coming out here the first time when I thought my death was more or less assured, and I'm only brave enough to be here now with Goal by my side. If not for those, maybe I really would have just stayed in the forest ring as long as possible. And then…

What was that?

I hear an odd noise, like paper tearing, but much lower. A slight vibration ascends through my body.

Goal's eyes widen. "Get up," he says, and then yells: "Get up!"

I jump to my feet as the ground rips apart below me. It's an earthquake of enormous proportions. The land below is me is breaking, producing horrible loud sounds of dirt and gravel rearranging themselves, and more vibrations, now overpowering and nauseating, began rippling through me. I think I might be screaming. I have enough sense to pick up my belongings, and then I'm grabbing onto Goal or he's grabbing me and we're running.

I allow myself the luxury of looking behind us and see exactly what we're getting away from: the grassland is no longer the plain it was before, but now looks more like a canyon with pointed, unfriendly ridges. The motion hasn't stopped, though. As I'm sprinting, gripping my bag in one hand and Goal's arm in the other, the earth below me is continuing to pulsate.

I've been terrified up till now, but the moment of true horror comes when I feel my right foot hit not flat earth, but a ridge. And then it happens. I'm sliding downward. If I weren't screaming before, I certainly am now. I try to grab onto the ridge, and manage to get one hand up. Goal is yelling my name, and dust is filling the air, covering my face. I have no choice but to shut my eyes, but they are already filled with debris and aching. I know at once I'm going to die here, this time for sure, but I've got to get these supplies to Goal. Can't let them fall down here with me. With all the force I have left, I toss the bag as far as I can, hoping that against all odds, it has flown over the edge of this pit I'm in and somehow magically landed at Goal's feet.

I don't think any inch of my body isn't in pain. With no remaining strength, I can't hold onto the ridge any longer. My face is partially buried in the dirt as I'm moving slowly downward. I can still barely breathe, but it feels like everything else is shutting down. When I feel a sharp pain in the left side of my head, it must be because I've inhaled too much of this dust. I open my eyes, but the whole world is now dark. I shut them again.

My first vision is blurry and green. Is this it? Have I gone to some verdant afterlife? I need to see. I reach my hands up to rub my eyes, but a boy says, "Don't." It's someone I know. It's Goal.

"I made it?" I hear myself ask. My voice sounds frightening, scratchy and hoarse and wheezy. It feels just as bad.

"They aren't ready to kill you. Not yet." Goal's voice is soft. "It's like we thought. They didn't want us to get too comfortable. Or they wanted to draw us back inward."

I feel his fingers on my face, holding my eyes open. Liquid drips into them, creating a pleasant cooling sensation and slightly sharpening my sight. Things are still fuzzy, but I can figure out that we're back in the forest near a collection of electric turquoise trees. Goal is sitting and looking down at me, holding a tiny white bottle. "You saved me," I croak out.

"I can't believe you did that," he says. "Why did you risk your life by throwing me the backpack?"

Two more drops fall into my eyes, and I can see even more clearly. Goal's face shows signs of injury; there's bruising on his cheeks and jaw and a dried wound under his eye. "You know why," I answer. He doesn't reply, and we remain in silence for several minutes. Soon, I can see pretty much normally. Goal is sitting against a tree, both our backpacks at his feet. He's still holding the little bottle whose contents helped my eyes. No doubt this must have been a sponsorship. Same as before: an item given to Goal to heal me. Thank you, Ivy. Couldn't be anyone else. I remember the drops Atia used to make my irises sparkle and decide that I'd rather have this type any day.

I manage to hoist myself into sitting position and Goal passes me my canteen. This soothes my throat slightly, but it still aches just to breathe. Perhaps my lungs have been permanently damaged. Speaking isn't exactly pleasant either, but it's a necessity. "What happened?"

Goal sighs. "Well, the grassy area and part of the sandy area are now full of cracks and pointy mounds. You fell down the side of one and hit your head on a rock. I managed to get hold of you under your arms and pull you back up." He sighs. "I managed to get you just to the edge of the forest, and then everything stopped moving."

"Thank you," I tell him.

He looks at me sternly. "Seeder, you shouldn't have thrown me the backpack. You should've let go of it so you could keep your grip on the cliff."

I don't know what to tell him other than the truth. "I was certain I was going to die. I thought it'd be better for you to have the supplies." I know Goal isn't really mad at me. He's just scared. How could he not be, after what just happened? And if the roles were switched, I know I'd be saying the same thing.

Goal pushes some damp hair off his forehead. "I just want you to always value your life over any supply, OK? We can always get more water and food somewhere. But you only have one life."

Well. He's not wrong. "OK," I agree. "You're right."

"Good."

"So, about these drops you've been giving me. I don't suppose you just found that bottle foraging in the woods, right?"

Goal tries to hold his serious expression but eventually a smile breaks though. "Yeah, no, not quite. Another gift from your mentors. Came in while you were starting to wake up." Then he looks concerned again. "But I'm worried about your throat and your breathing. They didn't send anything for that. And you inhaled a lot of the dust."

"Maybe it'll… heal by itself," I say. Of course, it sounds so totally ridiculous as it comes out of my mouth in my scratchy voice, but I want to believe it. Goal gives me my canteen and the water soothes my throat somewhat, and my chest really only aches when I try to take a deep breath. I'll be able to walk, and maybe even jog, but I am fairly certain I won't be capable of running anytime in the near future. On the bright side, my eyes have returned to normal and don't hurt in the slightest. Most probably, there was only enough sponsorship money to cover one of the two kinds of medicine – either the eye drops or something for my lungs – and my mentors had the good sense to go with the drops. Not being able to run does indeed lower my chances of survival, but being blind would have set them at zero.

I find I can push myself to my feet, and I look back at where the earthquake took place. Before, the grassland wasn't really visible from the forest, but now I can make out the sharp peaks far in the distance. I have a strange urge to go back, to see exactly where I almost died, what I would have fallen into, where my body would've been found. I don't share this with Goal, though. Don't want him to think my mind was damaged along with my lungs.

We're on the move again, but much slower. We have to be, because of my injured status, but also there's the fact that it's smart to be on guard now. Goal is correct; the earthquake wasn't meant to kill us – its purpose was to get us away from where we were and bring us back into the forest. When the tributes are too spread out across the arena and no violence is impending, you can always count on the Gamemakers to do something about it. So there very well could be another tribute in the nearby vicinity.

Something occurs to me. What if Goal and I were to meet up with the remaining Careers? The girls from 2 and 4 are still alive. Goal said they all got separated, though, right? So they probably aren't together? If one of them came across us, what would happen? Would she join our alliance? Attack us? Would Goal be able to kill his own former ally? Or would it be left to me?

When we pass by a tree with black bark, I at first think it's one of the dyed ones, but then I realize that it's actually a persimmon tree. I'm able to climb it by myself, with Goal standing guard, and collect a bunch. This time, Goal does not question what I've given him.

"Why don't we make camp here?" Goal proposes. "It's a good idea to stay near the food, and you need to rest anyway."

Sounds reasonable to me. I feel terrible. Yes, my belly is full and I'm glad Goal is with me, but I am worn out and in pain. My ally is right that I need to rest, and all the exhaustion I have felt, from dealing with Golden's nuttiness to the constant pressure to look good and now, within the arena, fighting to survive against injury and environmental attacks… all that exhaustion seems to concentrate here in this moment. But it's not sleep I need – it's to be out of here, and that isn't an option.

I almost have to physically force Goal to go to sleep and let me take the first watch. He protests that I'm injured, that I'm in no condition to fight. And yes, I can concede that I'm not the best possible guard right now, but I also know he desperately needs a break, whether he'll admit it or not. I'm better than nothing, anyway.

While Goal is asleep, I climb back into the persimmon tree, not to collect more fruit but even higher, until I'm as far up as I think I can safely get. Doing this with my compromised lungs takes longer than it should, but I make it to the top. Unfortunately, there isn't much to see – mostly just other treetops, although I now have a better view of the newly-formed canyons where the grassland used to be. Better that than a fire for us to run away from. What happened to the animals out there? Might there still be game to be hunted? Scaling the smaller peaks could be feasible.

I let my ally wake up on his own and then settle into sleep myself. It feels like very little time has passed when I'm jolted back awake by the sound of a horrible scream. I leap to my feet. That scream came from someone female, and it sure wasn't me. I spot two figures in the distance and cautiously make my way over, moving slowly and keeping behind trees to avoid being seen. But when I get there, I discover there was nothing to be worried about. It's Goal and the slumped corpse of a tribute with several arrows protruding from her chest. A throwing axe lies beside her hand.

Goal whirls to look in my direction, his crossbow still aimed. He relaxes upon recognizing me. "It's the girl from 7," is all he says as the cannon sound is played to announce her death.

I nod, now wide awake. It's truly lucky that this girl arrived while Goal was on watch and not me. I've been incredibly naïve, haven't I? Thinking I could just sit around with Goal and wait things out. The things that occurred today – the earthquake and this attack – they aren't going to stop. My face tightens. Time to face death again. I approach the girl's corpse and remove her backpack, then grab the axe from the ground, too. "Let's go," I tell Goal, my voice surprisingly clear.

We retreat back into the forest, and the hovercraft comes to pick up the girl's body. In her bag, I find some segments of pine bark and a decent amount of nuts, which had proven a source of food for me early on, too. Nothing else. I add the food to my own collection, and I'll hang on to the axe, too. Now I have that as well as the knife I got from the District 5 boy. The two weapons are of similar size, and used together, they could be a decent stand-in for the throwing knives I tried out in the Training Center. "I'm going to practice with these tomorrow," I tell Goal. "It's time to get serious."


	17. Chapter 17

Practicing in the arena is nothing like it was during my time in the Training Center. With no experts around, I have to basically coach myself. Goal observes and tries to offer helpful comments where he can, but he can't give me any kind of direct guidance. As I discovered when I tried to hunt using his crossbow, expertise with one kind of weapon doesn't transfer to another.

"Hit the purple tree," Goal tells me, indicating a garishly-dyed birch only a few yards from me. I throw the knife and it lands, piercing the wood. The trees he points out get progressively further away, and I alternate between my knife and the axe I picked up last night. I take breaks between my throws to cough, which is still rough and scratchy but less painful than yesterday. Maybe I am healing after all. Finally, Goal selects a tree that I am consistently unable to hit. It's a pretty decent distance from where we're standing, meaning I'm probably well-equipped to attack someone from range. I don't know that I'll need to do that, though. I'm confident I will never repeat what I did to that boy from District 12. I will not be offensive again. I won't attack unless attacked first. My knife and axe can be used defensively, too, as long as my reaction time is good. In the end, it's not really your proficiency with a weapon that matters, but your awareness of what's around you and the quickness of your senses. Can you train that to any useful degree during the few days you get to prepare for the Games? I wonder.

When I feel I've done all I can for a while, Goal and I sit down and eat some of the persimmons we saved along with the pine nuts I took from the District 7 girl's supplies. "Let's take stock of things," he says. "This is day six, right?"

I think it over. "Yes, that's correct," I tell him. That means I've been in here almost a week… well, on arena time, anyway. It's probably not _too_ far off from reality, though; from what I've seen, the Gamemakers don't usually start messing with the day and night cycle until later in the Games, when they need to bring a small remaining group of tributes together or the audience has grown impatient to see somebody die. That reminds me. "And how many of us are still alive?"

Goal thinks for a few minutes. "12. Half living, half dead."

After that, we try to work through who's still in the arena. We eliminate the deceased first. We know the girl from 7 is gone – that's an easy one. Goal immediately then remembers his former allies: the boy from 4, killed in the bloodbath, and then the boy from 2, and Goal's district partner, killed by the beasts. Of course, I instantly think of the boy from 12. My deep regret. And then there was the boy from 5, who I don't feel as bad about, since it was self-defense. That's only half the list. "Let's try thinking of who we're sure is alive," I suggest. Naturally, March pops into my head right away. Then Emmer and Annona. The girl from District 3 with the incredibly long hair – Solus, right? She also hasn't died. Goal knows which other Careers are still around, the girls from 2 and 4. That's it. I wrack my brain to try to recall who else died on that first day, but the faces and numbers get mixed up in my mind. The most important things: Goal is alive. March is alive. So I'm OK.

Although we'd slept by the persimmon tree, I suddenly notice that the fruit is no longer present. The tree itself is still right there, but now its branches are completely bare and the whole thing has been dyed an artificial shiny black. "Oh, I get it!" I accidentally say out loud.

Goal looks over. "What do you get?"

I point to the altered tree. "See? That's where we got the persimmons yesterday."

"That black tree? But there's no fruit on it."

"They changed it," I explain. "Probably overnight."

He frowns. "You mean the Gamemakers did something to it to make it stop bearing fruit."

"Right. And then painted it black, I suppose. Or else they just replaced it."

"So then…" Goal's eyes widen, and I see he's come to the same conclusion as I have. "So they're slowly going to do that to all the trees with food in here, then, you think?"

"That's exactly what I think," I answer. And it makes perfect sense. Pretty much in any arena where there is a forested area, that tends to be the place where tributes congregate. The trees offer a sense of safety and places to hide, neither of which make for good entertainment. So, very often, the Gamemakers have to do things to either draw tributes out of the forest or make it less attractive somehow. Spontaneous fires are frequent occurrence, usually only at an intensity meant to scare tributes and push them somewhere else, like they did in those Games that March and Caesar talked about during his interview. Right now, though, they're doing something different: slowly eliminating our ability to find food among the trees. It's probably been happening for a while now, and I just happened to realize it at this moment. Then I have another thought. "I bet that's why they decided to blow up the grassland," I say. "Not just to get us out of there, but to make it so people can't hunt there, either."

Goal nods slowly. "If they take out all the food sources in the arena, our only choice will be to fight each other for the stuff we've collected." So the Gamemakers want to drive us to desperation. It's going to be one of those Games, where they try to bring the audience a side dish of psychological horror to go with the main course of physical violence. "I guess we should try to stock up today," he says evenly.

This new information hits me with a fresh wave of fear. If the theory is correct, and we reach a point where there's literally no more food to be found in the arena and we're forced to starve or fight each other over what little we have in our packs, that could make things even more dangerous in here. The tributes in hiding will be drawn out and made to fight… just like Chaff warned so long ago. To be idle is to die; the Gamemakers can ensure that. If you insist on being too defiant to get involved in violence, no problem: you'll just starve to death. There's no way out. Every second you are in the arena, you are trapped.

Goal and I are used to working together now and we easily slide back into our normal roles, him on the defensive while I look around for food. Today, though, I'm finding it difficult to concentrate. This bond I have with Goal still feels so surreal. This boy I've only known for a few days, who comes from a totally different place than me and whom I only happened to meet, has become my protector. Or partner? Is it fair to say we're equals in our alliance? Goal believed he would starve without my help. Not knowing about plants is pretty typical for a Career, I think, because they always expect to be able to live on the Cornucopia bounty and then sponsorships the rest of the way. It's just as my mentors said: the Careers repeatedly rely on the same strategy, and that can be a weakness. It doesn't seem right, though, to group Goal in with "the Careers." He didn't volunteer for this, and he doesn't seem to take any joy in killing.

Goal stops suddenly. "I saw it," he says, sounding alarmed.

"What?" I look around but don't see anything of note.

"I saw the tree change. Right in front of me."

I move from behind Goal and stand next to him. He's stopped in front of a fluorescent orange-colored tree that appears as though it might be made of plastic. It certainly doesn't look like anything that ever did or could bear fruit. "This one?"

Goal nods. "Yeah. Before it was just regular, with some kind of berry growing on it. And then as we got close, the entire tree suddenly started to glow for a second, and then there was this flash, and then it was… like this. The whole thing took less than a minute."

So, my suspicions were correct. Obviously, this has been going on for a while, but this is the first time that it's happened right in front of us. "Now that they know we know what they're doing, they're just toying with us," I figure aloud. This is not a good omen. In theory, it's possible that this particular tree just happened to change as we were approaching it, but I think it's more likely that this is a message from the Gamemakers. _You may have discovered what we're doing, but we'll always be one step ahead of you._

"Could be," Goal says, looking upward and around. "Think there's any chance that maybe they'll stop doing it now that we're onto them?"

It's certainly a nice thought, Faustine Sweet and the others just tossing up their hands and going, "Well, they figured us out! Onto plan B," but it's not very realistic. "It's unlikely," I answer him. "Even if it's obvious that we're aware it's happening, the entertainment factor of food becoming more and more scarce still holds."

"Right."

There's nothing else to be said, and in fact, Goal and I don't exchange any more dialogue at all until he stops me again. "There's a normal tree with some stuff growing on it, but I don't know if it's food," he says, pointing out a tree that stands out from the others. It's shorter and wider, and after a minute or two, I realize it's an avocado tree. They're a rarity even in District 11, so I wasn't expecting to see one here of all places. There are several types of produce that we grow that are reserved for Capitol consumption only: pomegranates, lychees, and avocados are a few. I've never held one of these in my own hands, let alone tasted it, so its inclusion in the flora of the arena is kind of shocking. It's virtually impossible that any tribute other than a District 11 citizen would even recognize an avocado. Either this was placed here just for me (and March), or else the Gamemakers thought it would be amusing to watch the tributes walk right past a food source unaware.

I climb up into the tree and start searching for ripe specimens while Goal sits on the ground, inspecting his crossbow. From this high distance, he looks like little more than a child. No doubt the days of malnutrition and intense stress in the arena have eaten away at his muscles. Not that I look any better – whatever weight I gained during my few days on a Capitol diet, I'm back to my old pre-tribute figure by now. And I can only imagine what my face must look like; covered in soot? Scarred up? A quick finger-through of my hair confirms that the magic Atia did to it has long since departed.

After I collect a ripe-feeling avocado each for Goal and myself, I hop back down and show him what I've got. I have to stop him from biting right through the skin. Although I've never eaten avocado before, I do know you have to peel it first. Goal watches with interest as I slice away the black covering, revealing gooey green flesh underneath. Strange. It doesn't really _look_ like a delicacy. Once I've finished preparing both the avocados, Goal and I bite into them together. The flavor is… well, lacking.

Goal makes a confused face as he chews. "It's not bad, it's just…"

"Tasteless?" I offer. "Slimy?"

He laughs. "Yes. To both. You said these are normally for the Capitol only?"

"Yeah… they must do something to them," I propose. Of all the negative things I can say about the Capitol, the food is the one aspect to it I can't really criticize. Whatever secrets are needed to make avocado be amazing, the chefs there clearly have them. For now, it only has a very mild vegetal taste, but it feels really fatty in my mouth – this is a good thing, because fat will keep us full for longer. On the other hand, the lack of juice means they won't do much to quench our thirsts. That won't be a problem, though; I've still got plenty of iodine.

Even though neither of us is exactly enamored with the avocados, we decide we'll camp by the tree anyway. In any case, there's a chance that by the time morning breaks, it will have been changed into one of the fake trees. I want to do some more thinking, so I take the first watch while Goal settles down. I'm still worried about the possibility of permanent damage to my lungs; my coughing hasn't stopped. Thankfully, it doesn't hurt anymore, but I'm concerned about the sound I'm making. And what if we have to run away from something? Will I be able to do that? Goal hasn't said anything about it, but I don't know what that means. Maybe he just expects to be able to protect me… that was our original agreement, I suppose, and I haven't yet lost my ability to hold up my end of the bargain.

After a while, I find myself wondering about the other tributes. The two remaining Careers, the girls from 2 and 4… they're still out there. What I'm unsure of is how they're surviving, seeing as Goal needed me to find food. It could be that they were out in the grasslands too, hunting. Or perhaps they have an enormous list of sponsors keeping them full. An awful idea crosses my mind: what if his mentors redirected his gifts to the girl from 2? No… no. Being unhappy with your tribute's choices, I can see that, but giving up on him? I can't see a mentor doing that. And even if they are displeased with some of what Goal has done, that won't change the fact that his friends and family and everyone else back in District 1 will be cheering for him, just as my loved ones in 12 are doing for me.

When Goal awakens and readies himself to take over the watch, I fall asleep with thoughts of the faces I miss. My mother and father; Carissa and Clover; the others who work alongside me in the fields; the kindly shopkeepers; and Mayor Glenn, still so warmhearted even after losing his wife and daughter to disease. All these people have been watching me, hoping for me, wanting the best for me.

My eyes jolt open to the sound of a horrible scream.

"Seeder! See–"

The voice cuts out and is replaced by a terrible sputtering noise.

I hop to my feet and run toward the noise. I spot movement eventually and can detect two figures. I slow down and come to a standstill. It's dark, but I can see what's happened.

It's Goal, lying on the ground. A dagger in his throat.

And there, standing over him, is March.


End file.
